

























• tj-v/ 

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HAMBURG, FROM THE PARADE 

























LON J) 0 N : 

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & CO., I'ARIUNGOON STREET 















































SUNNY MEMORIES 


OF 


FOREIGN LANDS. 


BY 

MBS. HAEBIET BEECHEK STOWE, 

ii 

AUTHOR OR 

“ UNCLE TOM’S CABIN,” ETC. 


“ When thou haply seesfc 
Some rare note-worthy object in thy travels, 
Make me partaker of thy happiness.” 

Shakspeake, 



FORTIETH THOUSAND, 


LONDON: 

G. ROUTLEDGE & CO., PARRINGDON STREET. 

1855. 




.<=>89 
\ 9 55 


tONDON t 

SAYILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, 
CEANDOS STREET. 



< ' 



PKEFACE. 


This book will be found to be truly wbat its name denotes, 
“ Sunny Memories.” 

If tbe criticism be made that everything is given couleur de 
-ose , the answer is, Why not? They are the impressions, as 
they arose, of a most agreeable visit. How could they be 
otherwise P 

If there be characters and scenes that seem drawn with too 
oright a pencil, the reader will consider that, after all, there are 
many worse sins than a disposition to think and speak well of 
one’s neighbours. To admire and to love may now and then be 
tolerated, as a variety, as well as to carp and criticize. America 
and England have heretofore abounded towards each other in 
illiberal criticisms. There is not an unfavourable aspect of 
things in the old world which has not become perfectly familiar 
to and a little of the other side may have a useful influence. 

FV- # f 

The ,,'riter has been decided to issue these letters principally, 
he ever, by the persevering and deliberate attempts, in certain 
qua: ters, to misrepresent the circumstances which are here 
gi ~ D So long as these misrepresentations affected only those 
IpX were predetermined to believe unfavourably, they were not 
regarded. But as they have had some influence, in certain cases, 



VI 


PEEFACE. 


upon really excellent and honest people, it is desir: t bul fb 
truth should be plainly told. 

The object of publishing these letters is, thereto? to * L0 
those who are true-hearted and honest the sam 
picture of life and manners which met the writer’ 5 • vn 
She had in view a wide circle of friends throughc •/ " - 

country, between whose hearts and her own there nan 

acquaintance and sympathy of years, and who, lovin Tun.. \ 
and feeling the reality of it in themselves, are sinci'» y pleas v 
to have their sphere of hopefulness and charity enlavg u. .For 
such this is written; and if those who are not such begin to 
read, let them treat the book as a letter not addressed to them, 
which, having opened by mistake, they close and pass to the 
true owner. 

The English reader is requested to bear in mind that the book 
has not been prepared in reference to an English but an 
American public, and to make due allowance for that fact. It 
would have placed the writer far more at ease had there been no 
prospect of publication in England. As this, however, was 
unavoidable, in some form, the writer has chosen to issue it 
there under her own sanction. 

There is one acknowledgment which the author feels happy tc 
make, and that is, to those publishers in England, Scotland, 
France, and Germany, who have shown a liberality beyond the 
requirements of legal obligation. The author hopes that the day 
is not far distant when America will reciprocate the liberality of 
other nations by granting to foreign authors those rights which 
her own receive from them. 

The Journal which appears in the continental tour is from 
the pen of the Bev. C. Beecher. The Letters were, for the 


PEEFACE. 


• * 
VU 

most part, compiled from what was written at the time and on 
the spot. Some few were entirely written after the author’s 
return. 

It is an affecting thought that several of the persons who 
appear in these letters as among the living, have now passed 
to the great future. The Earl of Warwick, Lord Cockburn, 
Judge Talfourd, and Dr. Wardlaw, are no more among the ways 
of men. Thus, while we read, while we write, the shadowy 
procession is passing; the good are being gathered into life, and 
heaven enriched by the garnered treasures of earth. 


H. B. S. 






CONTENTS. 


The Voyage 


LETTER I. 

*•••#• 


LETTER II. 

Liverpool.'—The'Dingle.—A Ragged School.—Flowers.—Speke Hall. 
—Antislavery Meeting ........ 


LETTER III. 

Lancashire.—Carlisle.—Gretna Green.—Glasgow . , . 

t 

LETTER IV. 

The Baillie.—The Cathedral.—Dr. Wardlaw.—A Tea Party.— 
Both well Castle.—Chivalry.—Scott and Burns .... 


LETTER V. 


Dumbarton Castle.—Duke of Argyle.—Linlithgow.—Edinburgh 


LETTER VI. 

Public Soiree.—Dr. Guthrie.—Craigmiller Castle.—Bass Rock.— 
Bannockburn.—Stirling.—Glamis Castle.—Barclay of Ury.—The 
Dee.—Aberdeen.—The Cathedral.—Brig o’ Balgounie 


PAGE 

1 


7 


20 


25 


34 


39 




X 


CONTENTS. 


LETTER VII. 

Letter from a Scotch Bachelor.—Reformatory Schools of Aberdeen.— 
Dundee.—Dr. Dick.—The Queen in Scotland . 

LETTER VIII. 

Melrose.—Dry burgh.—Abbotsford ...... 

LETTER IX. 

Douglas of Cavers. —Temperance Soiree.—Calls.—Lord Gainsborough. 
—Sir William Hamilton.—George Combe.—Visit to Hawthornden. 
—Roslin Castle.—The Quakers.—Hervey’s Studio.—Grass Market. 

•—Gray friars’ Churchyard ..... 

LETTER X. 

Birmingham.—Stratford-on-Avon ...... 

LETTER XI. 

Warwick.—Kenilworth ........ 

LETTER XII. 

Coventry.—Sibyl Jones.—J. A. James. ..... 

LETTER XIII. 

Ljndon.—Lord Mayor’s Dinner 

LETTER XIV. 

Loudon.—Dinner with the Earl of Carlisle ..... 

LETTER XV. 

London.—Anniversary of Bible Society.—Dulwich Gallery.—Dinner 
with Mr. E. Cropper.—Soiree at Rev. Mr. Binney’s . 

LETTER XVI. 


PAGE 

51 

G2 

81 

91 

107 

118 

123 

123 

132 


Reception at Stafford House . 


. 137 


CONTENTS. 

LETTER XVII. 

• •*•••• 

LETTER XVIII. 

Baptist Noel.—Borough School.—Rogers the Poet.—Stafford House. 
—Ellesmere Collection of Paintings.—Lord John Russell 

LETTER XIX. 

Breakfast. — Macaulay.—Hallam.—Milrnan.—Sir R. Inglis.—Lunch 
at Surrey Parsonage.—Dinner at Sir E. Buxton’s 

LETTER XX. 

Dinner at Lord Shaftesbury’s . ...... 

LETTER XXI. 

Stoke Newington.—Exeter Hall.—Antislavery Meeting . . 

LETTER XXII. 

Windsor.—The Picture Gallery.—Eton.—The Poet Gray i . 

LETTER XXIII. 

Rev. Mr. Gurney. — Richmond, the Artist. — Kossuth. — Pembroke 
Lodge.—Dinner at Lord John Russell’s.—Lambeth Palace . 

LETTER XXIV. 

Playford Hall.—Clarkson 

LETTER XXV. 

Joseph Sturge.—The “Times” rvpon Dressmaking.—Duke of Argyle. 
—Sir David Brewster.—Lord Mahon.—Mr. Gladstone 

LETTER XXVI. 

London Milliners and Dressmakers.—Lord Shaftesbury . , . 


- 

The Sutherland Estate 


xi 

PAGE 

144 

150 

157 

162 

167 

172 

180 

186 

195 


199 



jdi CONTENTS. 

LETTER XXVII. 

PA. 

Archbishop of Canterbury’s Sermon to the Ragged Scholars.—Mr. 
Cobden.—Miss Greenfield’s Concert.—Rev. S. R. Ward.—Lady 
Byron.—Mrs. Jameson.—George Thompson.—Ellen Crafts . . 2 

LETTER XXVIII. 

Model Lodging Houses.—Lodging House Act.—Washing Houses . 2( 

LETTER XXIX. 

Benevolent Movements.—The Poor Laws.—The Insane.—Factory 
Operatives.—Schools, &c. ....... 2 ' 


LETTER XXX. 

Presentation at Surrey Chapel.—House of Parliament.—Miss Green¬ 
field’s Second Concert.—Sir John Malcolm.—The Charity Children. 

—Mrs. Gaskell.—Thackeray ....... 2 

JOURNAL. 

London to Paris.—Church Music.—The Shops.— The Louvre.— 
Music at the Tuileries.—A Salon.—Versailles.—M. Belloc . . 2' 

LETTER XXXI. 

The Louvre.—The Venus de Milon.2 

JOURNAL. 

M. Belloc’s Studio.—M. Charpentier.—Salon Musicale.—Peter 
Parley.—Jardin Mabille.—Remains of Nineveh.—The Emperor.— 
Versailles.—Satory.—Pere la Chaise.—Adolphe Monod.—Paris to 
Lyons.—Diligence to Geneva.—Mont Blanc.—Lake Leman . . 21 

LETTER XXXII. 


Pioute to Chamouni.—Glaciers 


. 2i 



SUNNY MEMORIES 


OP 

FOREIGN LANDS. 


LETTER I. 

THE VOYAGE. 

Liverpool, April 11, 1853. 

My dear Children :— 

Y ou wish, first of all, to hear of the voyage. Let me assure you, my 
dears, in the very commencement of the matter, that going to sea is net at 
ail the thing that we have taken it to he. 

You know how often we have longed for a sea voyage, as the fulfilment 
of all our dreams of poetry and romance, the realization of our highest 
conceptions of free, joyous existence. 

You remember our ship-launching parties in Maine, when w T e used to 
ride to the seaside through dark pine forests, lighted up With the gold, 
scarlet, and orange tints of autumn. What exhilaration there was, as 
those beautiful inland bays, one by one, unrolled like silver ribbons before 
us ! and how all our sympathies went forth with the grand new ship about 
to be launched ! How graceful and noble a thing she looked, as she sprang 
from the shore to the blue waters, like a human soul springing from life 
into immortality ! How all our feelings went with her ! how we longed to 
be with her, and a part of her—to go with her to India, China, or any 
where, so that we might rise and fall on the bosom of that magnificent- 
ocean, and share a part of that glorified existence ! That ocean ! that blue, 
sparkling, heaving, mysterious ocean, with all the signs and wonders of 
heaven emblazoned on its bosom, and another world of mystery hidden, 
beneath its waters ! Who would not long to enjoy a freer communion, and 
rejoice in a prospect of days spent in unreserved fellowship with its grand 
and noble nature ? 

Alas ! what a contrast between all this poetry and the real prose fact- 
of going to sea! No man, the proverb says, is a hero to his valet de 
chambre. Certainly, no poet, no hero, no inspired prophet, ever lost so 
much on near acquaintance as this same mystic, grandiloquent old Ocean. 
The one step from the sublime to the ridiculous is never taken with such 
alacrity as in a sea voyage. 

In the first place, it is a melancholy fact, but not the less true, that ship 
life is not at all fragrant; in short, particularly on a steamer, there 
is a most mournful combination of grease, steam, onions, and dinners in 
general, either past, present, or to come, which, floating invisibly in the 
atmosphere, strongly predisposes to that disgust of existence, which, in 
half an hour after sailing, begins to come upon you; that disgust, that 

B 




2 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


strange, mysterious, ineffable sensation which steals slowly and inexplicably 
upon you; which makes every heaving billow, every white-capped wave, 
the ship, the people, the sight, taste, sound, and smell of everything a 
matter of inexpressible loathing ! Man cannot utter it. 

It is really amusing to watch the gradual progress of this epidemic; to 
see people stepping on board in the highest possible feather, alert, airy, 
nimble, parading the deck, chatty and conversable, on the best possible 
terms with themselves and mankind generally; the treacherous ship, 
meanwhile, undulating and heaving in the most graceful rises and pauses 
imaginable, like some voluptuous waltzer; and then to see one after 
another yielding to the mysterious spell! 

Your poet launches forth, “full of sentiment sublime as billows,” dis¬ 
coursing magnificently on the colour of the waves and the glory of the 
clouds; but gradually he grows white about the mouth, gives sidelong 
looks towards the stairway; at last, with one desperate plunge, he sets, to 
rise no more! 

Here sits a stout gentleman, who looks as resolute as an oak log. ‘‘ These 
things are much the effect of imagination,” he tells you; “a little self- 
control and resolution,” kc. Ah me ! it is delightful, when these people, 
who are always talking about resolution, get caught on shipboard. As the 
backwoodsman said to the Mississippi River, about the steamboat, they 
“get their match.” Our stout gentleman sits a quarter of an hour, upright 
as a palm tree, his back squared against the rails, pretending to be reading 
a paper; but a dismal look of disgust is settling down about his lips; the 
old sea and his will are evidently having a pitched battle. Ah, ha ! there 
he goes for the stairway; says he has left a book in the cabin, but shoots 
by with the most suspicious velocity. You may fancy his finale. 

Then of course, there are young ladies,—charming creatures,—who, in 
about ten minutes, are going to die, and are sure they shall die, and don’t 
care if they do; whom anxious papas, or brothers, or lovers, consign with all 
speed to those dismal lower regions, where the brisk chambermaid, who 
Las been expecting them, seems to think their agonies and groans a regular 
part of the play. 

I had come on board thinking, in my simplicity, of a fortnight to be spent 
something like the fortnight on a trip to New Orleans, on one of our float¬ 
ing river palaces; that we should sit in our state-rooms, read, sew, sketch, 
and chat; and accordingly I laid in a magnificent provision in the way of 
literature and divers matters of fancy work, with which to while away the 
time. Some last, airy touches, in the way of making up bows, disposing 
ribbons, and binding collarets, had been left to these long, leisure hours as 
matters of amusement. 

Let me warn you, if you ever go to sea, you may as well omit all such 
preparations. Don’t leave so much as the unlocking of a trunk to he done 
alter sailing. In the few precious minutes when the ship stands still, 
before she weighs her anchor, set your house, that is to say, your state 
rcoin, as much in order as if you were going to be hanged; place everything 
in the most convenient position to be seized without trouble at a moment’s 
notice; for be sure that in half an hour after sailing an infinite desperation 
will seize you, in which the grasshopper will be a burden. If any thing is 
in your trunk, it might almost as well be in the sea, for any practical pro- 
bAOility of your getting to it. 



THE VOYAGE. 


B 


Moreover, let your toilet be eminently simple, for you will find the time 
coming when to button a cuff or arrange a ruff will be a matter of absolute 
• despair. You lie disconsolate in your berth, only desiring to be let alone 
to die; and then, if you are told, as you always are, that “you mustn’t 
give way,” that “you must rouse yourself” and come on deck, you will 
appreciate the value of simple attire. With every thing in your berth 
dizzily swinging backwards and forwards, your bonnet, your cloak, your 
tippet, your gloves, all present so many discouraging impossibilities; 
knotted strings cannot be untied, and modes of fastening which seemed 
curious and convenient, when you had nothing else to do but fasten them, 
now look disgustingly impracticable. Nevertheless, your fate for the whole 
voyage depends upon your rousing yourself to get upon deck at first; to 
give up, then, is to be condemned to the Avernus, the Hades of the lower 
regions, for the rest of the voyage. 

Ah, those lower regions!—the saloons—every couch and corner filled with 
prostrate, despairing forms, with pale cheeks, long, willowy hair and 
sunken eyes, groaning, sighing, and apostrophizing the Fates, and solemnly 
vowing between every lurch of the ship, that “you’ll never catch them 
going to sea again, that’s what you wontand then the bulletins from all 
the state rooms—“Mrs. A. is sick, and Miss B. sicker, and Miss C. 
almost dead, and Mrs. E., F., and G. declare that they shall give up.” 
This threat of “giving up” is a standing resort of ladies in distressed cir¬ 
cumstances ; it is always very impressively pronounced, as if the result of 
earnest purpose; but how it is to be carried out practically, how ladies do 
give up, and what general impression is made on creation when they do, 
has never yet appeared. Certainly the sea seems to care very little about 
the threat, for he goes on lurching all hands about just as freely afterwards 
as before. 

There are always some three or four in a hundred who escape all these 
evils. They are not sick, and they seem to be having a good time generally, 
and always meet you with “What a charming run we are having! Isn't 
it delightful ?” and so on. If you have a turn for being disinterested, you 
can console your miseries by a view of their joyousness. Three or four 
of our ladies were of this happy order, and it was really refreshing to see 
them. 

For my part, 1 was less fortunate. I could not and would not give up 
and become one of the ghosts below, and so I managed, by keeping on deck 
and trying to act as if nothing was the matter, to lead a very uncertain and 
precarious existence, though with a most awful undertone of emotion, which 
seemed to make quite another thing of creation. 

I wonder that people who wanted to break the souls of heroes and 
martyrs never thought of sending them to sea and keeping them a little sea¬ 
sick. The dungeons of Olmutz, the leads of Venice, in short, all the 
naughty, wicked places that tyrants ever invented for bringing down the 
spirits of heroes, are nothing to the berth of a ship. Get Lafayette, 
Kossuth, or the noblest of woman born, prostrate in a swinging, dizzy berth 
of one of these sea coops, called state rooms, and I’ll warrant almost any 
compromise might be got out of them. 

Where in the world the soul goes to under such influences nobody knows; 
one would really think the sea tipped it all out of a man, just as it does 
the water out of his wash basin. The soul seems to be like one of the genii 

b 2 




SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


4 


enclosed in a vase, in the Arabian Nights; now, it rises like a pillar cf 
cloud, and floats over land and sea, buoyant, many-lined, and glorious; 
again, it goes down, down, subsiding into its copper vase, and the cover is 
clapped on, and there you are. A sea voyage is the best device tor getting 
the soul back into its vase that I know of. 

But at night!—the beauties of a night on shipboard !—down in your 
berth, with the sea hissing and fizzing, gurgling and booming, within an 
inch of your ear; and then the steward comes along at twelve o’clock and 
puts out your light, and there you are! Jonah in the whale was not darker 
or more dismal. There, in profound ignorance and blindness, you lie, and 
feel yourself rolled upwards, and downwards, and sidewise, and all ways, 
like a cork in a tub of water; much such a sensation as one might suppose 
it to be, were one headed up in a barrel and thrown into the sea. 

Occasionally a wave comes with a thump against your ear, as if a great 
hammer were knocking on your barrel, to see that all within was safe and 
sound. Then you begin to think of krakens, and sharks, and porpoises, 
and sea serpents, and all the monstrous, slimy, cold, hobgoblin brood, who, 
perhaps, are your next door neighbours; and the old blue-haired Ocean 
whispers through the planks, “Here you are; I’ve got you. Your grand 
ship is my plaything. I can do what I like with it.” 

Then you hear every kind of odd noise in the ship—creaking, straining, 
crunching, scraping, pounding, whistling, blowing off steam, each of which 
to your unpractised ear is significant of some impending catastrophe; you 
lie wide awake, listening with all your might, as if your watching did any 
good, till at last sleep overcomes you, and the morning light convinces you 
that nothing very particular has been the matter, and that all these 
frightful noises are only the necessary attendants of what is called a good 
run. 


Our voyage out was called “a good run.” It was voted, unanimously, to 
be “an extraordinarily good passage,” “a pleasant voyage;” yet the ship 
rocked the whole time from side to side with a steady, dizzy, continuous 
motion, like a great cradle. I had a new sympathy for babies, poor little 
things, who are rocked hours at a time without so much as a “ by your 
leave” in the case. No wonder there are so many stupid people in the 


world. 

There is no place where killing time is so much of a systematic and avowed 
object as in one of these short runs. In a six months’ voyage people give 
up to their situation, and make arrangements to live a regular life; but the 
ten days that now divide England and America are not long enough for 
anything. The great question is how to get them off; they are set up, like 
tenpins, to be bowled at; and happy he whose ball prospers. People with 
strong heads, who can itand the incessant swinging of the boat, may read 
or write. Then there is one’s berth, a never-failing resort, where one may 
analyze at one’s leisure the life and emotions of an oyster in the mud. 
"Walking the deck is a means of getting off some half hours more. If a 
ship heaves in sight, or a porpoise tumbles up, or, better still, a whale 
spouts, it makes an immense sensation. 

Our favourite resort is by the old red smoke pipe of the steamer, which 
rises warm and luminous as a sort of tower of defence. The wind must 
blow an uncommon variety of ways at once when you cannot find a shel¬ 
tered side, as well as a place to warm your feet. In fact, the old smoke 


THE VOYAGE. 


5 

pipe is the domestic hearth of the ship; there, with the double convenience 
of warmth and fresh air, you can sit by the railing, and, looking down, 
command the prospect of the cook’s offices, the cow house, pantries, &c. 

Our cook has specially interested me—a tall, slender, melancholy man, 
with a watery-blue eye, a patient, dejected visage, like an individual 
weary of the storms and commotions of life, and thoroughly impressed 
with the vanity of human wishes. I sit there hour after hour watching 
him, and it is evident that he performs all his duties in this frame of sad 
composure. Now I see him resignedly stuffing a turkey, anon compounding 
a sauce, or mournfully making little ripples in the crust of a tart; but all 
is done under an evident sense that it is no use trying. 

Many complaints have been made of our coffee since we have been on 
board, which, to say the truth, has been as unsettled as most of the social 
questions of our day, and, perhaps, for that reason quite as generally 
unpalatable; but since I have seen our cook, I am quite persuaded that the 
coffee, like other works of great artists, has borrowed the hues of its 
maker’s mind. I think I hear him soliloquize over it—“ To what purpose 
is coffee ?—of what avail tea ?—thick or clear ?—all is passing away—a 
little egg, or fish skin, more or less, what are they ?” and so we get 
melancholy coffee and tea, owing to our philosophic cook. 

After dinner I watch him as he washes dishes : he hangs up a whole row 
of tin ; the ship gives a lurch, and knocks them all down. He looks as 
if it was just what he expeetecl. “ Such is life !” he says, as he pursues 
a frisky tin pan in one direction, and arrests the gambols of the ladle in 
another; while the wicked sea, meanwhile, with another lurch, is upsetting 
all his dishwater. I can see how these daily trials, this performing of most 
delicate and complicated gastronomic operations in the midst of such un¬ 
steady, unsettled circumstances, have gradually given this poor soul a 
despair of living, and brought him into this state of philosophic melan¬ 
choly. Just as Xantippe made a sage of Socrates, this whisky, frisky, 
stormy ship life has made a sage of our cook. Meanwhile, not to do him 
injustice, let it be recorded, that in all dishes which require grave con¬ 
viction and steady perseverance, rather than hope and inspiration, he is 
eminently successful. Our table excels in viands of a reflective and solemn 
character; mighty rounds of beef, vast saddles of mutton, and the whole 
tribe of meats in general, come on in a superior style. English plum 
pudding, a weighty and serious performance, is exhibited in first-rate order. 
The jellies want lightness,—but that is to be expected. 

I admire the thorough order and system with which everything is done 
in these ships. One day, when the servants came round, as they do at a 
certain titfie after dinner, and screwed up the shelf of decanters and bottles 
out of our reach, a German gentleman remarked, “Ah, that’s always the 
way on English ships; everything done at such a time, without saying ‘ by 
your leave.’ If it had been on an American ship now, he would have said, 
* Gentlemen, are you ready to have this shelf raised?’ ” 

No doubt this remark is true, and extends to a good many other things ; 
but in a ship in the middle of the ocean, when the least confusion or 
irregularity in certain cases might be destruction to all on board, it does 
inspii-e confidence to see that there is even in the minutest things a strong 
and steady system, that goes on without saying “by your leave.” Even 
the rigidness with which lights are all extinguished at twelve o’clock, 


< 





SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN IANDS. 


6 

though it is very hard in some cases, still gives you confidence in the 
'watchfulness and care with which all on hoard is conducted. 

On Sunday there was a service. We went into the cabin, and saw 
prayer books arranged at regular intervals, and soon a procession of the 
tailors neatly dressed, filed in and took their places, together with such 
passengers as felt disposed, and the order of morning prayer was read. The 
sailors all looked serious and attentive. I could not but think that this 
feature of the management of her majesty’s ships was a good one, and 
worthy of imitation. To be sure, one can say it is only a form. Granted; 
but is not a serious, respectful form of religion better than nothing ? Besides, 
I am not willing to think that these intelligent-looking sailors could listen 
to all those devout sentiments expressed in the prayers, and the holy truths 
embodied in the passages of Scripture, and not gain something from it. It 
is bad to have only the form of religion, but not so bad as to have neither 
the form nor the fact. 

When the ship has been out about eight days, an evident bettering of 
spirits and condition obtains among the passengers. Many of the sick ones 
take heart, and appear again among the ovalks and ways of men; the ladies 
assemble in little knots, and talk of getting on shore. The more knowing 
ones, w r ho have travelled before, embrace this opportunity to show their 
knowledge of life by telling the new hands all sorts of hobgoblin stories 
about the custom house officers and the difficulties of getting landed in 
England. It is a curious fact, that old travellers generally seem to take 
this particular delight in striking consternation into younger ones. 

“ You’ll have all your daguerreotypes taken away,” says one lady, who, 
in right of having crossed the ocean nine times, is entitled to speak cx 
cathedra on the subject. 

‘ ‘ All our daguerreotypes!” shriek four or five at once. ‘ ‘ Pray tell, what 
for?” 

“ They will do it,” says the knowing lady, with an awful nod; “unless 
you hide them and all your books, they’ll burn up-” 

“Burn our books!” exclaim the circle. “0, dreadful! What do they 
do that for?” 

“ They’re very particular always to burn up all your books. I knew a 
lady who had a dozen burned,” says the wise one. 

“Dear me! will they take our dresses ?” says a young lady, with 
increasing alarm. 

“No, but they’ll pull everything out, and tumble them well over, I can 
tell you.” 

‘ ‘ How horrid!” 

An old lady, who has been very sick all the way, is revived by this 
appalling intelligence. 

“ I hope they wont tumble over my caps!” she exclaims. 

“Yes, they will have everything out on deck,” says the lady, delighted 
with the increasing sensation. “I tell you you don’t know these custom 
house officers.” 

“ It’s too bad !” “It’s dreadful !” “How horrid !” exclaim all. 

“I shall put my best things in my pocket,” exclaims one. “They 
don’t search our pockets, do they ?” 

“Well, no, not here; but I tell you they’ll search your pockets at 
Antwerp and Brussels,” says the lady. 



LIVERPOOL. 


7 

Somebody catches the sound, and flies off into the state rooms with the 
intelligence that “the custom house officers are so dreadful—they rip open 
your trunks, pull out all your things, burn your books, take away your 
daguerreotypes, and even search your pockets and a row of groans is 
heard ascending from the row of state rooms, as all begin to revolve what 
they have in their trunks, and what they are to do in this emergency. 

“ Pray tell me,” said I to a gentlemanly man, who had crossed four or 
five times, “ is there really so much annoyance at the custom house ?” 

“Annoyance, ma’am? No, not the slightest.” 

“But do they really turn out the contents of the trunks, and take away 
people’s daguerreotypes, and burn their books ?” 

“ Nothing of the kind, ma’am. I apprehend no difficulty. I never had 
any. There are a few articles on which duty is charged. I have a case of 
cigars, for instance ; I shall show them to the custom house officer, and 
pay the duty. If a person seems disposed to be fair, there is no difficulty. 
The examination of ladies’ trunks is merely nominal ; nothing is de¬ 
ranged.” 

So it proved. We arrived on Sunday morning ; the custom house officers, 
very gentlemanly men, came on board ; our luggage was all sSt hut, and 
passed through a rapid examination, which in many cases amounted only to 
opening the trunk and shutting-it, and all was over. The whole ceremony 
did not occupy two hours. 

So ends this letter. You shall hear further how we landed at some 
future time. 


LETTER II. 

LIVERPOOL.—THE DINGLE.—A RAGGED SCHOOL.—ELOWERS.—SPEXE HALL.— 

ANTISLAVERY MEETINGS, 

Dear Father, 

It was on Sunday morning when we first came in sight of land. The day 
was one of a thousand—clear, calm, and bright. It is one of those strange, 
throbbing feelings, that come only once in a while in life ; this waking up 
to find an ocean crossed and long-lost land restored again in another hemi¬ 
sphere ; something like what we should suppose might be the thrill of 
awakening from life to immortality, and all the wonders of the world un¬ 
known. That low, green line of land in the horizon is Ireland ; and we, 
with water smooth as a lake, and sails furled, are running within a mile of 
the shore. Every body on deck, full of spirits and expectation, busy as 
can be looking through spyglasses, and exclaiming at every object on 
shore— 

“Look ! there’s Skibareen, where the worst of the famine was,” says 

one. 

“ Look ! that’s a ruined Martello tower,” says another. 

We new voyagers, who had never seen any ruin more imposing than that 
of a cow house, and, of course, were ravenous for old towers, were now 
quite wide awake, but were disappointed to learn that these were only 
custom house rendezvous. Here is the county of Cork. Some one calls 
out,— 








8 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


“ There is O’Connell’s house and a warm dispute ensues whether a 
large mansion, with a stone chapel by it, answers to that name. At all 
events the region looks desolate enough, and they say the natives of it are 
almost savages. A passenger remarks, that “O’Connell never really did 
anything for the Irish, but lived on his capacity for exciting their enthu¬ 
siasm.” Thereupon another expresses great contempt for the Irish who 
could be so taken in. Nevertheless, the capability of a disinterested en¬ 
thusiasm is, on the whole, a nobler property of a human being than a 
shrewd self-interest. I like the Irish all the better for it. 

Now we pass Kinsale lighthouse ; there is the spot where the Albion 
was wrecked. It is a bare, frowning cliff, with walls of rock rising per¬ 
pendicularly out of the sea. Now, to be sure, the sea smiles and sparkles 
around the base of it, as gently as if it never could storm ; yet under other 
skies, and with a fierce south-east wind, how the waves would pour in here ! 
Woe then to the distressed and rudderless vessel that drifts towards those 
fatal rocks ! 

The Albion struck just round the left of the point, where the rock rises 
perpendicularly out of the sea. I well remember, when a child, of the 
newspapers being filled with the dreadful story of the wreck of the ship 
Albion—how for hours, rudderless and helpless, they saw themselves 
driving with inevitable certainty against these pitiless rocks; and how, in 
the last struggle, one human being after another was dashed against them 
in helpless agony. 

What an infinite deal of misery results from man’s helplessness and 
ignorance and nature’s inflexibility in this one matter of crossing the ocean ! 
What agonies of prayer there were during all the long hours that this ship 
was driving straight on to these fatal rocks, all to no purpose ! It struck 
and crushed just the same. Surely, without the revelation of God in 
Jesus, who could believe in the divine goodness ? I no not wonder the old 
Greeks so often spoke of their gods as cruel, and believed the universe was 
governed by a remorseless and inexorable fate. Who would come to any 
other conclusion, except from the pages of the Bible ? 

But we have sailed far past Kinsale point. Now blue and shadowy 
loom up the distant form of the Youghal Mountains, (pronounced Yooie.) 
The surface of the water is alive with fishing boats, spreading their white 
wings and skimming about like so many moth millers. 

About nine o’clock we were crossing the sand bar, which lies at the 
mouth of the Mersey River, running up towards Liverpool. Our signal 
pennants are fluttering at the mast head, pilot full of energy on one wheel 
house, and a man casting the lead on the other. 

“ By the mark five,” says the man. The pilot with all his energy, is 
telegraphing to the steersman. This is a very close and complicated piece 
of navigation, I should think, this running up the Mersey, for every 
moment we are passing some kind of a signal token, which warns off from 
some shoal. Here is a bell buoy, where the waves keep the bell always 
tolling; here, a buoyant lighthouse; and “See there, those shoals, how 
pokerish they look !” says one of the passengers, pointing to the foam on 
cur starboard bow. All is bustle, animation, exultation. Now float out 
the American stars and stripes on our bow. 

Before us lies the great city of Liverpool. No old cathedral, no castle^ 
areal New Yorkish place. 


LIVERPOOL. 9 

“ There, that’s the fort,” cries one. Bang, bang, go the two guns 
from our forward gangway. 

“ I wonder if they will fire from the fort,” says another. 

“How green that grass looks!” says a third; “and what pretty- 
cottages !” 

“All modern, though,” says somebody, in tones of disappointment. 
Now we are passing the Victoria Dock. Bang, bang again. We me in a 
forest of ships of all nations; their masts bristling like the tall pines in 
Maine; their many coloured flags streaming like the forest leaves in 
autumn. 

“ Hark !” says one; “ there’s a chime of bells from the city; how sweet! 
I had quite forgotten it was Sunday.” 

Here we cast anchor, and the small steam tender com.es puffing alongside. 
Now for the custom-house officers. State rooms, holds, and cabins must 
all give up their trunks ; a general muster among the baggage, and pas¬ 
senger after passenger comes forward as their names are called, much as 
follows: “Snooks.” “Here, sir.” “Anything contraband here, Mr. 
Snooks? Any cigars, tobacco, &c.?” “Nothing, sir.” 

A little unlocking, a little fumbling. “ Shut up; all right; ticket here.” 
And a little man pastes on each article a slip of paper, with the royal arms 
of England and the magical letters V. R., to remind all men that they have 
come into a country where a lady reigns, and of course must behave them¬ 
selves as prettily as they can. 

We were inquiring of some friends for the most convenient hotel, when 
we found the son of Mr. Cropper, of Dingle Bank, waiting in the cabin to 
take us with him to their hospitable abode. In a few moments after the 
baggage had been examined, we all bade adieu to the old ship, and went on 
board the little steam tender, which carries passengers up to the city. 

This Mersey River would be a very beautiful one, if it were not so dingy 
and muddy. As we are sailing up in the tender towards Liverpool, I de¬ 
plore the circumstance feelingly. “What does make this river so muddy?” 

“0,” says a bystander, “don’t you know that 

‘ The quality of mercy is not strained’ ? ” 

And now we are fairly alongside the shore, and we are soon going to set 
our foot on the land of Old England. 

Say what we will, an American, particularly a New Englander, can 
never approach the old country without a kind of thrill and pulsation of 
kindred. Its history for two centuries was our history. Its literature, 
laws, and language are our literature, laws and language. Spenser, 
Shakspeare, Bacon, Milton, were a glorious inheritance, which we share in 
common. Our very life-blood is English life-blood. It is Anglo-Saxon 
vigour that is spreading our country from Atlantic to Pacific, and leading 
on a new era in the world’s development. America is a tall, sightly young 
shoot, that has grown from the old royal oak of England; divided from its 
parent root, it has shot up in new, rich soil, and under genial, brilliant 
skies, and therefore takes on a new type of growth and foliage, but the sap 
in it is the same. 

I had an early opportunity of making acquaintance with my English 
brethren; for, much to my astonishment, I found quite a crowd on the 
wharf, and we walked up to our carriage through a long lane of people, 


10 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

bowing, and looking very glad to see us. Wlien I came to get into the 
back it was surrounded by more faces than I could count. They stood very 
quietly, and looked very kindly, though evidently very much determined to 
look. Something prevented the hack from moving on; so the interview 
was prolonged for some time. I therefore took occasion to remark the very 
fair, pure complexions, the clear eyes, and the general air of health and 
vigoui', which seem to characterize our brethren and sisters of the island. 
There seemed to be no occasion to ask them how they did, as they were 
evidently quite well. Indeed, this air of health is one of the most striking 
things when one lands in England. 

They were not burly, red-faced, and stout, as I had sometimes con¬ 
ceived of the English people, but just full enough to suggest the idea of 
vigour and health. The presence of so many healthy, rosy people looking 
at me, all reduced as I was, first by land, and then by sea sickness, made 
me feel myself more withered and forlorn than ever. But there was an 
earnestness and a depth of kind feeling in some of the faces, which I shall 
long remember. It seemed as if I had not only touched the English shore, 
but felt the English heart. 

Our carriage at last drove on, taking us through Liverpool, and a mile or 
two out, and at length wound its way along the gravel paths of a beautiful 
little retreat, on the banks of the Mersey, called the “Dingl^.” It 
opened to my eyes like a paradise, all wearied as I was with the tossing 
of the sea. I have since become familiar with these beautiful little spots, 
which are so common in England; but now all was entirely new to me. 

We rode by shining clumps of the Portugal laurel, a beautiful evergreen, 
much resembling our mountain rhododendron; then there was the prickly, 
polished, dark-green holly, which I had never seen before, but which is, 
certainly, .one of the most perfect of shrubs. The turf was of that soft, 
dazzling green, and had that peculiar velvet-like smoothness, which seem 
characteristic of England. We stopped at last before the door of a cottage, 
whose porch was overgrown with ivy. From that moment I ceased to feel 
myself a stranger in England. I cannot tell you how delightful to me, 
dizzy and weary as I was, was the first sight of the chamber of reception 
which had been prepared for us. No item of cozy comfort that one could 
desire was omitted. The sofa and easy chair wheeled up before a cheerful 
coal fire, a bright little teakettle steaming in front of the grate, a table with 
a beautiful vase of flowers, books, and writing apparatus, and kind friends 
with words full of affectionate cheer,—all these made me feel at home in a 
moment. 

The hospitality of England has become famous in the world, and, I think, 
with reason. I doubt not there is just as much hospitable feeling in other 
countries; but in England the matter of coziness and home comfort has 
been so studied, and matured, and reduced to system, that they really have 
it in their power to effect more, towards making their guests comfortable, 
than perhaps any other people. 

After a short season allotted to changing our ship garments and for rest, 
we found ourselves seated at the dinner table. While dining, the sister-in- 
law of our friends came in from the next door, to exchange a word or two 
of welcome, and invite us to breakfast with them the following morning. 

Between all the excitements of landing, and meeting so many new faces, 
and the remains of the dizzy motion of the ship, which still haunted me, I 


LIVERPOOL. 


11 

found it impossible to close iny eyes to sleep that first night till the dim 
gray of dawn. I got up as soon as it was light, and looked out of the 
window; and as my eves fell on the luxuriant, ivy-covered porch, the 
clumps of shining, dark-green holly bushes, I said to myself, “ Ah, really, 
this is England!” 

I never saw any plant that struck me as more beautiful than this holly. 
It is a dense shrub growing from six to eight feet high, with a thickly var¬ 
nished leaf of green. I do not believe it can ever come to a state of perfect 
development under the fierce alternations of heat and cold which obtain in 
our New England climate, though it grows in the Southern States. It is 
one of the symbolical shrubs of England, probably because its bright green 
in winter makes it so splendid a Christmas decoration. A little bird sat 
twittering on one of the sprays. He had a bright red breast, and seemed 
evidently to consider himself of good blood and family, with the best rea¬ 
son, as I afterwards learned, since he was no other than the identical robin 
redbreast renowned in song and story ; undoubtedly a lineal descendant of 
that very cock robin whose death and burial form so vivid a portion of our 
childish literature. 

I must tell you, then, as one of the first remarks on matters and things 
here in England, that “ robin redbreast” is not at all the fellow we in. 
America take him to be. The character who flourishes under that name 
among us is quite a different bird ; he is twice as large, and has altogether 
a different air, and as he sits up with military erectness on a rail fence or 
stump, shows not even a family likeness to his diminutive English namesake. 
Well, of course, robin over here will claim to have the real family estate 
and title, since he lives in a country where such matters are understood 
and looked into. Our robin is probably some fourth cousin, who, like 
others, has struck out a new course for himself in America, and thrives 
upon it. 

We hurried to dress, remembering our engagements to breakfast this 
morning with a brother of our host, whose cottage stands on the same 
ground, within a few steps of our own. I had not the slightest idea of 
what the English mean by a breakfast, and therefore went in all inno¬ 
cence, supposing that I should see nobody but the family circle of my ac¬ 
quaintances. Quite to my astonishment, I found a party of between thirty 
and forty people. Ladies sitting with their bonnets on, as in a morning- 
call. It was impossible, however, to feel more than a momentary embar¬ 
rassment in the friendly warmth and cordiality of the circle by whom we 
were surrounded. 

The English are called cold and stiff in their manners; I had always 
heard they were so, but I certainly saw nothing of it here. A circle of 
family relatives could not have received us with more warmth and kindness. 
The remark which I made mentally, as my eye passed around the circle, 
was—Why, these people are just like home ; they look like us, and the tone 
of sentiment and feeling is precisely such as I have been accustomed to ; I 
mean with the exception of the anti-slavery question. 

That question has, from the very first, been, in England, a deeply reli¬ 
gious movement. It was conceived and carried on by men of devotional 
habits, in the same spirit in which the work of foreign missions was under¬ 
taken in our own country ; by just such earnest, self-denying, devout men 
as Samuel J. Mills and Jeremiah Evarts. 






12 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


It was encountered by the same contempt and opposition, in the outset, 
from men of merely worldly habits and principles; and to this day it re¬ 
tains that hold on the devotional mind of the English nation that the foreign 
mission cause does in America. 

Liverpool was at first to the antislavery cause nearly what New York has 
been with us. Its commercial interests were largely implicated in the slave 
trade, and the virulence of opposition towards the first movers of the anti- 
slavery reform in Liverpool was about as great as it is now against aboli¬ 
tionists in Charleston. 

When Clarkson first came here to prosecute his inquiries into the subject, 
a mob collected around him, and endeavoured to throw him off the dock 
into the water ; he was rescued by a gentleman, some of whose descendants 
I met on this occasion. 

The father of our host, Mr. Cropper, was one of the first and inost effi¬ 
cient supporters of the cause in Liverpool ; and the whole circle was com¬ 
posed of those who had taken a deep interest in that struggle. The wife of 
our host was the daughter of the celebrated Lord Chief Justice Denman, a 
man who, for many years, stood unrivalled, at the head of the legal mind in 
England,.and who, with a generous ardour seldom equalled, devoted all his 
energies to this sacred cause. 

When the publication of Uncle Tom’s Cabin turned the attention of the 
British public to the existing horrors of slavery in America, some pallia¬ 
tions of the system appeared in English papers. Lord Denman, though 
then in delicate health and advanced years, wrote a series of letters upon 
the subject—an exertion which entirely prostrated his before feeble health. 
In one of the addresses made at table, a very feeling allusion was made to 
Lord Denman’s labours, and also to those of the honoured father of the tw r o 
Messrs. Cropper. 

As breakfast parties are things which we do not have in America, per* 
haps mother would like to know just how they are managed. The hour is 
generally somewhere between nine and twelve, and the whole idea and spirit 
of the thing is that of an informal and social gathering. Ladies keep their 
bonnets on, and are not dressed in full toilet. On this occasion w r e sat and 
chatted together spcially till the whole party was assembled in the drawing¬ 
room, and then breakfast was announced. Each gentleman had a lady 
assigned him, and we walked into the dining-room, where stood the tables 
tastefully adorned with flow'ers, and spread with an abundant cold collation, 
while tea and coffee w r ere passed round by servants. In each plate was a 
card, containing the name of the person for whom it was designed. I took 
my place by the side of the Rev. Dr. McNiel, one of the most celebrated 
clergymen of the established church in Liverpool. 

The conversation was flowing, free, and friendly. The old reminiscences 
of the antislavery conflict in England were touchingly recalled, and the 
warmest sympathy was expressed for those in America who are carrying on 
the same cause. 

In one thing I was most agreeably disappointed. I had been told that 
the Christians of England were intolerant and unreasonable in their opinions 
on this subject ; that they could not be made to understand the peculiar 
difficulties which beset it in America, and that they therefore made no dis¬ 
tinction and no allowance in their censures. All this I found, so far as 
this circle were concerned, to be strikingly untrue. They appeared to be 


LIVERPOOL 


13 


peculiarly affectionate in tlieir feelings as regarded our country; to have 
the highest appreciation of, and the deepest sympathy with, our religious 
community, and to be extremely desirous to assist us in our difficulties. I 
also found them remarkably well informed upon the subject. They keep 
tlieir eyes upon our papers, our public documents and speeches in Congress, 
and are as well advised in regard to. the progress of the moral conflict as 
our Foreign Missionary Society is with the state of affairs in Hindostan and 
Burrnah. 

Several present spoke of the part which England originally had in planting 
slavery in America, as placing English Christians under a solemn responsi¬ 
bility to bring every possible moral influence to bear for its extinction. Never¬ 
theless, they seem to be the farthest possible from an unkind or denun¬ 
ciatory spirit, even towards those most deeply implicated. The remarks 
made by Dr. McNiel to me were a fair sample of the spirit and attitude of 
all present. 

‘ £ I have been trying, Mrs. S.,” he said, ‘‘ to bring my mind into the 
attitude of those Christians at the south who defend the institution of 
slavery. There are real Christians there who do this—are there not ?” 

I replied that undoubtedly there were some most amiable and Christian 
people who defend slavery on principle, just as there had been some to de¬ 
fend every form of despotism. 

‘ ‘ Do give me some idea of the views they take; it is something to me so 
inconceivable. I am utterly at a loss how it can be made in any way 
plausible.” 

I then stated that the most plausible view, and that which seemed to 
have the most force with good men, was one which represented the institu¬ 
tion of slavery as a sort of wardship or guardian relation, by which an in¬ 
ferior race were brought under the watch and care of a superior race to be 
instructed in Christianity. 

He then inquired if there was any system of religious instruction actually 
pursued. 

In reply to this, I gave him some sketch of the operations foi* the reli¬ 
gious instruction of the negroes, which had been carried on by the Presby¬ 
terian and other denominations. I remarked that many good people who 
do not take very extended views, fixing their attention chiefly on the 
efforts which they are making for the religious instruction of slaves, are 
blind to the sin and injustice of allowing their legal position to remain what 
it is. 

‘ ‘ But how do they slrat their eyes to the various cruelties of the system, 
—the separation of families—the domestic slave trade ?” 

I replied, “ In part by not inquiring into them. The best kind of people 
are, in general, those 'who know the least of the cruelties of the system; 
they never witness them. As in the city of London or Liverpool there 
may be an amount of crime and suffering which many residents may live 
years without seeing or knowing, so it is in the slave states.” 

Every person present appeared to be in that softened and charitable frame 
of mind which disposed them to make every allowance for the situation of 
Christians so peculiarly tempted, while, at the same time, there was the 
most earnest concern, in view of the dishonour brought upon Christianity 
by the defence of such a system. 

One other thing I noticed, which was an agreeable disappointment to me. 





u 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


I had been told that ther was no social intercourse between the established 
church and dissenters. In this party, however, were people of many 
different denominations. Our host belongs to the established church; 
his brother, with whom we are visiting is a Baptist, and their father was a 
Friend; and there appeared to be the utmost social cordiality. Whether I 
shall find this uniformly the case will appear in time. 

After the breakfast party was over, I found at the door an array of chil¬ 
dren of the poor, belonging to a school kept under the superintendence of 
Airs. E. Cropper, and called, as is customary here, a ragged school. The 
•children, however, were anything but ragged, being tidily dressed, remark¬ 
ably clean, with glowing cheeks and bright eyes. I must say, so far as I 
have seen them, English children have a much healthier appearance than 
those of America. By the side of their bright bloom ours look pale and 
faded. 

Another school of the same kind is kept in this neighbourhood, under the 
auspices of Sir George Stephen, a conspicuous advocate of the antislavery 
cause. 

I thought the fair patroness of this school seemed not a little delighted 
with the appearance of her proteges, as they sung, with great enthusiasm, 
Jane Taylor’s hymn, commencing,— 

‘ I thank the goodness and the grace 
That on my birth have smiled, 

And made me in these Christian days 
A happy English child.” 

All the little rogues were quite familiar with Topsy and Eva, and aufait 
in the fortunes of Uncle Tom; so that, being introduced as the maternal 
relative of these characters, I seemed to find favour in their eyes. And 
when one of the speakers congratulated j^hem that they were born in a land 
where no child could be bought or sold, they responded with enthusiastic 
cheers—cheers which made me feel rather sadbut still I could not quarrel 
with English people for taking all the pride and all the comfoi't which this 
inspiriting truth can convey. 

They had a hard enough struggle in rooting up the old weed of slavery, 
to justify them in rejoicing in their freedom. Well, the day will come in 
America, as I trust, when as much can be said for us. 

After the children were gone, came a succession of calls; some from very 
aged people, the veterans of the old antislavery cause. I was astonished 
and overwhelmed by the fervour of feeling some of them manifested ; there 
'seemed to be something almost prophetic in the enthusiasm with which 
they expressed their hope of our final success in America. This excitement, 
though very pleasant, was wearisome, and 1 was glad of an opportunity after 
dinner to rest myself, by rambling uninterrupted, with my friends, through 
the beautiful grounds of the Dingle. 

Two nice little boys were my squires on this occasion, one of whom, a 
sturdy little fellow, on being asked his name, gave it tome in full as Joseph 
Babington Macaulay, and I learned that his mother, by a former marriage, 
had been the wife of Macaulay’s brother. Uncle Tom Macaulay, I found 
was a favourite character with the young people. Master Harry conducted 
me through the walks to the conservatories, all brilliant with azaleas 1 
and all sorts of flowers, and then through a long walk on the banks of the 
Mersey. 






THE DINGLE. 


15 


Here the wild flowers attracted my attention, as being so different from 
those of our own country. Their daisy is not our flower, with its wide, 
plaited ruff and yellow centre. The English daisy is 

“ The wee modest crimson-tipped flower,” 

which Burns celebrates. It is what we raise in greenhouses, and call the 
mountain daisy. Its effect, growing profusely about fields and grass plats, 
is very beautiful. 

We read much, among the poets, of the primrose, 

“Earliest daughter of the Spring.” 

This flower is one, also, which we cultivate in gardens to some extent. 
The outline of it is as follows :—The hue a delicate straw colour; it grows 
in tufts in shady places, and has a pure, serious look, which reminds one 
of the line of Shakspeare :— 

“ Pale primroses, which die unmarried.” 

It has also the faintest and most ethereal perfume,—a perfume that seems 
to come and go in the air like music ; and you perceive it at a little distance 
from a tuft of them, when you would not if you gathered and smelled them. 
On the whole, the primrose is a poet’s and a painter’s flower. An artist’s 
eye would notice an exquisite harmony between the yellow-green hue of its 
leaves and the tint of its blossoms. I do not wonder that it has been so 
great a favourite among the poets. It is just such a flower as Mozart and 
liaphael would have loved. 

Then there is the bluebell—a bulb—which also grows in deep shades. 
It is a little purple bell, with a narrow green leaf, like a ribbon. We often 
read in English stories, of the gorse and furze; these are two names for the 
same plant—a low bush, with strong, prickly leaves, growing much like a 
juniper. The contrast of its very brilliant yellow, pea-shaped blossoms, 
with the dark green of its leaves, is very beautiful. It g"ows here in 
hedges and on commons, and is thought rather a plebeian affair. I think 
it would make quite an addition to our garden shrubbery. Possibly it 
might make as much sensation with us as our mullein does in foreign 
greenhouses. 

After rambling a while, we came to a beautiful summer house, placed in s 
a retired spot, so as to command a view of the Mersey river. I think they 
told me that it was Lord Denman’s favourite seat. There we sat down, 
and in common with the young gentlemen and ladies of the family, had 
quite a pleasant talk together. Among other things we talked about the 
question which is now agitating the public mind a good deal,—Whether it 
is expedient to open the Crystal Palace to the people on Sunday. They 
said that this course was much urged by some philanthropists, on the 
ground that it was the only day when the working classes could find any 
leisure to visit it, and that it seemed hard to shut them out entirely from 
all the opportunities and advantages which they might thus derive; that to 
exclude the labourer from recreation on the Sabbath, wa& the same as 
saying that he should never have any recreation. I asked, why the phi¬ 
lanthropists could not urge employers to give their workmen a part of 
Saturday for this purpose; as it seemed to me unchristian to drive trade s<r 
that the labouring man had no time but Sunday for intellectual and social 








16 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


recreation. We rather came to the conclusion that this was the right 
course; whether the people of England will, is quite another matter. 

The grounds of the Dingle embrace three cottages; those of the two 
Messrs. Cropper, and that of a son, who is married to a daughter of 
Dr. Arnold. I rather think this way of relatives living together is more 
common here in England than it is in America; and there is more idea of 
home permanence connected with the family dwelling-place than with us, 
where the country is so wide, and causes of change and removal so frequent. 
A man builds a house in England with the expectation of living in it and 
leaving it to his children; while we shed our houses in America as easily 
as a snail does his shell. We live a while in Boston, and then a Avliile in 
New York, and then, perhaps, turn up at Cincinnati. Scarcely anybody 
with us is living where they expect to live and die. The man that dies in 
the house he was born in is a wonder. There is something pleasant in the 
permanence and repose of the English family estate, which we, in America, 
know very little of. All which is apropos to our having finished our walk, 
and got back to the ivy-covered porch again. 

The next day at breakfast, it was arrauged that we should take a drive 
out to Speke Hall, an old mansion, which is considered a fine specimen of 
ancient house architecture. So the carriage was at the door. It was a 
cool, breezy, April morning, but there was an abundance of wrappers and 
carriage blankets provided to keep us comfortable. I must say, by-the-by, 
that English housekeepers are bountiful in their provision for carriage 
comfort. Every household has a store of warm, loose over garments, which 
are offered, if needed, to the guests; and each carriage is provided with one 
or two blankets, manufactured and sold expressly for this use, to envelope 
one’s feet and limbs; besides all which, should the weather be cold, comes 
out a long stone reservoir, made flat on both sides, and filled with hot 
water, for foot stools. This is an improvement on the primitive simplicity 
of hot bricks, and even on the tin foot stove, which has flourished in New 
England. 

Being thus provided with all things necessary for comfort, we rattled 
merrily away, and I, remembering that I was in England, kept my eyes 
wide open to see -what I could see. The hedges of the fields were just 
budding, and the green showed itself on them, like a thin gauze veil. 
These hedges are not all so Avell kept and trimmed as I expected to find 
them. Some, it is true, are cut very carefully ; these are generally hedges 
to ornamental grounds; but many of those which separate the fields straggle 
and sprawl, and have some high bushes and some low ones, and, in short, 
are no more like a hedge than many rows of bushes that we have at home. 
But such as they are, they are the only dividing lines of the fields, and it 
is certainly a more picturesque mode of division than our stone or worm 
fences. Outside of every hedge, towards the street, there is generally a 
ditch, and at the bottom of the hedge is the favourite nestling-place for all 
sorts of wild flowers. I remember reading in stories about children trying 
to crawl through a gap in the hedge to get at flowers, and tumbling into a 
ditch on the other side, and I now saw exactly how they could do it. 

As we drive we pass by many beautiful establishments, about of the 
quality of our handsomest country houses, but whose grounds are kept with 
a precision and exactness rarely to be seen among ris. We cannot get the 
gardeners who are qualified to do it; and if we could, the painstaking, 




SPEKE HALL. 


17 

fciow way of proceeding, and tlie habit of creeping thoroughness, which ar 
necessary to accomplish such results, die out in America. Nevertheless, 
such grounds are exceedingly beautiful to look upon, and I was much 
obliged to the owners of these places for keeping their gates hospitably 
open, as seems to be the custom here. 

After a drive of seven or eight miles, we alighted in front of Speke Hall. 
This house is a specimen of the old fortified houses of England, and was 
once fitted up with a moat and drawbridge, all in approved feudal style. 
It was built somewhere about the year 1500. The sometime moat was 
now full of smooth, green grass, and the drawbridge no longer remains. 

This was the first really old thing that we had seen since our arrival in 
England. We came up first to a low, arched, stone door, and knocked 
with a great old-fashioned knocker; this brought no answer but a treble 
and bass duet from a couple of dogs inside; so we opened the door, and saw 
a square court, paved with round stones, and a dark, solitary yew tree in 
the centre. Here in England, I think, they have vegetable creations made 
on purpose to go with old, dusky buildings; and this yew tree is one 
of them. It has altogether a most goblin-like, bewitched air, with its 
dusky black leaves and ragged branches, throwing themselves straight out 
with odd twists and angular lines, and might put one in mind of an old 
raven with some of his feathers pulled out, or a black cat with her hair 
stroked the wrong way, or any other strange, uncanny thing. Besides this 
they live almost for ever ; for when they have grown so old that any 
respectable tree ought to be thinking about dying, they only take another 
twist, and so live on another hundred years. I saw some in England seven 
hundred years old, and they had grown queerer every century. It is a 
species of evergreen, and its leaf resembles our hemlock, only it is longer. 
It is always planted about churches and graveyards; a kind of dismal 
emblem of immortality. This sepulchral old tree and the bass and treble 
dogs were the only occupants of the court. One of these, a great surly mastiff, 
barked out of his kennel on one side, and the other, a little wiry terrier, 
out of his on the opposite side, and both strained on their chains, as if they 
would enjoy making even more decided demonstrations if tliev could. 

There was an aged, mossy fountain for holy water by tne side of the 
wall, in which some weeds were growing. A door in the house was soon 
opened by a decent-looking serving woman, to whom we communicated our 
desire to see the hall. 

We were shown into a large dining hall with a stone floor, wainscoted 

* with carved oak, almost as black as ebony. There were some pious 
sentences and moral reflections inscribed in old English text, carved over 
the doors, and like a cornice round the ceiling, which was also of carved 
oak. Their general drift was, to say that life is short, and to call for 
watchfulness and prayer. The fireplace of the hall yawned like a great 
cavern, and nothing else, one would think, than a cartload of western 
sycamores could have supplied an appropriate fire. A great two-handed 
sword of some ancestor hung over the fireplace. On taking it down 

it reached to C-’s shoulder, who, you know, is six feet high. 

We went into a sort of sitting-room, and looked out through a window, 
latticed with little diamond panes, upon a garden wildly beautiful. The 
lattice was all wreathed round with jessamines. The furniture of this 

c 





18 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


room was modern, and it seemed the more unique from its contrast with the 
old architecture. 

We went up stairs to see the chambers, and passed through a long, 
narrow, black oak corridor, whose slippery boards had the authentic 
ghostly squeak to them. There was a chamber, hung with old, faded 
tapestry of Scripture subjects. In this chamber there was behind the 
tapestry a door, which, being opened, displayed a staircase, that led 
delightfully off to nobody knows where. The furniture was black oak, 
carved, in the most elaborate manner, with cherubs’ heads and other good 
and solemn subjects, calculated to produce a ghostly state of mind. And, 
to crown all, we heard that there was a haunted chamber, which was not 
to be opened, where a white lady appeared and walked at all approved 
hours. 

Now, only think what a foundation for a story is here. If our Haw¬ 
thorne could conjure up such a thing as the Seven Gables in one of our 
prosaic country towns, what would he have done if he had lived here ? 
Now he is obliged to get his ghostly images by looking through smoked 
glass at our square, cold realities ; but one such old place as this is a 
standing romance. Perhaps it may add to the effect to say, that the 
owner of the house is a bachelor, who lives there very retired, and employs 
himself much in reading. 

The housekeeper, who showed us about, indulged us with a view of the 
kitchen, whose snowy, sanded floor and resplendent polished copper and 
tin, were sights for a housekeeper to take away in her heart of hearts. 
The good woman produced her copy of Uncle Tom, and begged the 
favour of my autograph, which I gave, thinking it quite a happy thing to 
be able to do a favour at so cheap a rate. 

After going over the house we wandered through the grounds, which are 
laid out with the same picturesque mixture of the past and present. 
There was a fine grove, under whose shadows we walked, picking prim¬ 
roses, and otherwise enacting the poetic, till it was time to go. As we 
passed out, we were again saluted with a feu clc joie by the two fidelities 
at the door, which we took in very good part, since it is always respect¬ 
able to be thorough in whatever you are set to do. 

Coming home we met with an accident to the carriage, which obliged us 
to get out and walk some distance. I was glad enough of it, because 
it gave me a better opportunity for seeing the country. We stopped at a 
cottage to get some rope, and a young woman came out with that beautiful, 
clear complexion which I so much admire here in England; literally her 
cheeks were like damask roses. 

I told Isa I wanted to see as much of the interior of the cottages 
as I could; and so, as we were walking onward toward home, we managed 
to call once or twice, on the excuse of asking the way and distance. The 
exterior was very neat, being built of brick or stone, and each had attached 
to it a little flower garden. Isa said that the cottagers often offered them a 
slice of bread or tumbler of milk. 

They have a way here of building the cottages two or three in a block 
together, which struck me as different from our New England manner, 
where, in the country, every house stands detached. 

In the evening I went into Liverpool, to attend a party of friends of the 
antislavery cause. In the course of the evening Mr, Stowe was requested 




ANTISLAVERY MEETINGS. 


19 

to make some remarks. Among other things he spoke upon the support 
the free part of the world gave to slavery, by the purchase of the produce 
of slave labour; and, in particular, on the great quantity of slave-grown, 
cotton purchased by England; suggesting it as a subject for inquiry, 
whether this cannot be avoided. 

One or two gentlemen, Avho are largely concerned in the manufacture 
and importation of cotton, spoke to him on the subject afterwards, and 
said it was a thing which ought to be very seriously considered. It is 
probable that the cotton trade of Great Britain is the great essential item 
which supports slavery, and such considerations ought not, therefore, to be 
without their results. 

When I was going away, the lady of the house said that the servants 
were anxious to see me; so I came into the dressing-i'oom to give them an 
opportunity. 

While at Mr. C.’s, also, I had once or twice been called out to see 
servants, who had come in to visit those of the family. All of them had 
read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and were lull of sympathy. Generally speaking, 
tbe servants seem to me quite a supei'ior class to what are employed in 
that capacity with us. They look vei'y intelligent, are dressed with great 
neatness, and though their manner’s are very much more deferential than 
those of servants in our country, it appears to be a difference arising quite 
as much from self-respect and a sense of propriety as from servility. 
Everybody’s manners are more deferential in England than in Amei’ica. 

The next day was appointed to leave Liverpool. It had been arranged 
that, before leaving, we should meet the ladies of the Negroes’ Friend 
Society, an association lormed at the time of the oi’iginal antislavery agita¬ 
tion in England. We went in the carriage with our friends Mr. and Mrs. 
E. Cropper. On the way they were conversing upon tbe labours of Mrs. 
Chisholm, the celebrated female philanthropist, whose efforts for the benefit 
of emigi’ants are awmkening a vei'y general intei’est among all classes in 
England. They said there had been hesitation on the part of some good 
people, in regard to co-operating with her, because she is a Homan 
Catholic. 

It was agi’eed among us, that the great humanities of the present day 
are a proper gi-ound on which all sects can unite, and that if any feared 
the extension of wi’ong sentiments, they had only to supply emigrant ships 
rnoi'e abundantly with the Bible. Mr. C. said that this is a movement 
exciting very extensive interest, and that they hoped Mrs. Chisholm would 
visit Liverpool befoi’e long. 

The meeting was a very interesting one. The style of feeling expressed 
in all the l'emarks was tempei’ed by a deep and earnest remembrance of the 
share which England originally had in planting the evil of slavery in the 
civilized world, and her consequent obligation, as a Christian nation, now 
not to cease her efforts until the evil is extirpated, not merely from her 
own soil, but from all lands. 

The feeling towards America was l’espectful and friendly, and the utmost 
sympathy was * expressed with her in the difficulties with which she is 
environed by this evil. The tone of tbe meeting was deeply earnest and 
religious. They presented us with a sum to be appropriated for the benefit 
of the slave, in any way we might think proper. 

A great number of friends accompanied us to the cars, and a beautiful 

C 2 




20 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


bouquet of flowers was sent, with a very affecting message, from a sick 
gentleman, who, from the retirement of his chamber, felt a desire to testify 
his sympathy. 

Now, if all this enthusiasm for freedom and humanity, in the person of the 
American slave, is to be set down as good for nothing in England, because 
there are evils there in society which require redress, what then shall we 
say of ourselves ? Have we not been enthusiastic for freedom in the person 
of the Greek, the Hungarian, and the Pole, Avhile protecting a much worse 
despotism than any from which they suffer? Do we not consider it our 
duty to print and distribute the Bible in all foreign lands, when there are 
tki'ee millions of people among whom we dare not distribute it at home, 
and whom it is a penal offence even to teach to read it ? Do we not send 
remonstrances to Tuscany, about the Madiai, when women are imprisoned 
in Virginia for teaching slaves to read ? Is all this hypocritical, insincere, 
and impertinent in us? Are we never to send another missionary, or 
make another appeal for foreign lands, till we have abolished slavery at 
home ! For my part, I think that imperfect and inconsistent outbursts of 
generosity and feeling are a great deal better than none. No nation, no 
individual is wholly consistent and Christian; but let us not in ourselves 
or in other nations repudiate the truest and most beautiful developments 
of humanity, because we have not yet attained perfection. 

All experience has proved that the sublime spirit of foreign missions 
always is suggestive of home philanthropies, and that those whose heart 
has been enlarged by the love of all mankind are always those who are most 
efficient in their own particular sphere. 


LETTER III. 

LANCASHIRE.— CARLISLE.—GRETNA GREEN - .—GLASGOW. 

^ Glasgow, April 16, 1853. 

Dear Aunt E. 

You shall have my earliest Scotch letter; for I am sure nobody can 
sympathize in the emotions of the first approach to Scotland as you can. 

A country dear to us by the memory of the dead and the living ; a 
country whose history and literature, interesting enough of itself, has 
become to us still more so, because the reading and learning of it formed 
part of our communion for many a social hour, with friends long parted 
from earth. 

The views of Scotland, which lay on my mother’s table, even while I 
was a little child, and in poring over which I spent so many happy 
dreamy hours, the Scotch ballads, which were the delight of our evening 
fireside, and which seemed almost to melt the soul out of me, before I was 
old enough to understand their words,—the songs of Burns, which had 

been a household treasure among us,—the enchantments of Scott,_all 

these dimly returned upon me. It was the result of them all which’I felt 
in nerve and brain. 

And, by the by, that puts me in mind of one thing ; and that is, how 
much of our pleasure in literature results from its reflection on us from 
other minds. As we advance in life, the literature which has charmed us 
in the circle of our friends, becomes endeared to us from the reflected 
remembrance of them, of their individualities, their opinions, and their * 





LANCASHIRE. 


21 


sympathies, so that our memory of it is a many-coloured cord, drawn from 
many minds. 

So, in coming near to Scotland, I seemed to feel not only my own 
individuality, but all that my friends would have felt, had they been with 
me. For sometimes we seem to be encompassed, as by a cloud, with a 
sense of the sympathy of the absent and the dead. 

We left Liverpool with hearts a' little tremulous and excited by the vibra¬ 
tion of an atmosphere of universal sympathy and kindness. * We found 
ourselves, at length, shut from the warm adieus of our friends, in a snug 
compartment of the railroad car. The English cars are models of comfort 
and good keeping. There are six seats in a compartment, luxuriously 
cushioned and nicely carpeted, and six was exactly the number of our 
party. Nevertheless, so obstinate is custom, that we averred at first that 
we preferred our American cars, deficient as they are in many points of 
neatness and luxury, because they are so much more social. 

“Dear me,” said Mr. S., “six Yankees shut up in a car together ! Not 
one Englishman to tell us anything about the country ! Just like the six 
old ladies that made their living by taking tea at each other’s houses.” 

But that is the way here in England : every arrangement in travelling is 
designed to maintain that privacy and reserve which is the dearest and 
most sacred part of an Englishman’s nature. Things are so arranged here 
that, if a man pleases, he can travel all through England with his family, 
and keep the circle an unbroken unit, having just as little communication 
with anything outside of it as in his own house. 

From one of these sheltered apartments in a railroad car, he can pass to 
pre-engaged parlours and chambers in the hotel, with his own separate 
table, and all his domestic manners and peculiarities unbroken. In fact, it 
is a little compact home travelling about. 

Now all this is very charming to people who know already as much 
about a country as they want to know ; but it follows from it that a stranger 
might travel all through England, from one end to the other, and not be 
on conversing terms with a person in it. He may be at the same hotel, in 
the same train with persons able to give him all imaginable information, 
yet never touch them at any practicable point of communion. This is more 
especially the case if his party, as ours was, is just large enough to fill the 
whole apartment. 

As to the comforts of the cars, it is to be said, that for the same price 
you can get far more comfortable riding in America. Their first-class cars 
are beyond all praise, but also beyond all price; their second-class are 
comfortless, cushionless, and uninviting. Agreeably with our theory of 
democratic equality we have a general car, not so complete as the one, nor 
so bare as the other, where all ride together ; and if the traveller in thus 
riding sees things that occasionally annoy him, when he remembers that 
the whole population, from the highest to the lowest, are accommodated 
here together, he will certainly see hopeful indications in the general com¬ 
fort, order, and respectability which prevail; all which we talked over 
most patriotically together, while we were lamenting that there was not a 
seventh to our party to instruct us in the localities. 

Everything upon the railroad proceeds with systematic accuracy. There 
is no chance for the most careless person to commit a blunder, or make a 
mistake. At the proper time the conductor marches everybody into their 






22 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


places and locks them in, gives the word, “All right,” and away we go. 
Somebody has remarked, very characteristically, that the starting word of 
the English is “all right,” and that of the Americans “go ahead.” 

Away we go thi’ougk Lancashire, wide awake, looking out on all sides 
for any signs of antiquity. In being thus whirled through English scenery, 
I became conscious of a new understanding of the spirit and phraseology of 
English poetry. There are many phrases and expressions with which we 
have been familiar from childhood, and which, we suppose, in a kind of 
indefinite way, we understand, which, after all, when we come on English 
ground, start into a new significance: take, for instance, these lines from 
L’Allegro.— 

“ Sometimes walking, not unseen, 

By hedge-row elms on hillocks green. 

* « # * 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 

While the landscape round it measures ; 

Russet lawns and tallows gray. 

Where the nibbling flocks do stray j 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The labouring clouds do often rest; 

Meadows trim with daisies pied. 

Shallow brooks and rivers wide: 

Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosom’d high in tufted trees.” 

Now, these hedge-row elms. I had never even asked myself what they 
were till I saw them ; but you know, as I said in a former letter, the 
hedges are not all of them carefully cut; in fact, many of them are only 
irregular rows of bushes, where, although the hawthorn is the staple 
element, yet firs, and brambles, and many other interlopers put in their 
claim, and they all grow up together in a kind of straggling unity; and in 
the hedges trees are often set out, particularly elms, and have a very 
pleasing effect. 

Then, too, the tiees have mor-~ of that rounding outline which is expressed 
by the word “bosomed.” But here we are, right under the walls of Lan¬ 
caster, and Mr. S. wakes me up by quoting, “Old John o’Gaunt, time- 
honoured Lancaster. ” 

“Time-honoured,” said I; “it looks as fresh as if it had been built 
yesterday • you do not mean to say that is the real old castle ?”* 

“To be sure, it is the very old castle built in the reign of Edward III 
by John o’Gaunt ” 

It stands on the summit of a hill, seated regally like a queen upon a 
throne, and every part of it looks as fresh, and sharp, and clear, as if it 
were the work of modern times. It is used now as a county jail. We have 
but a moment to stop or admire—the merciless steam car drives on. We 
have a little talk about the feudal times, and the old past days; when 
again the cry goes up,— 

“ 0, there’s something ! What’s that ?” 

“ 0, that is Carlisle.” 

“Carlisle !” said I; “ what, the Carlisle of Scott’s ballad ?” 

“What ballad?” 

“Why, dou’t you remember, in the Lay of the Last Minstrel, the song 
of Albert Graeme, which has something about Carlisle’s wall in every 
verse ?’ * 



CARLISLE. 


23 


* It was an English laydie bright 
"When sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, 

And she would marry a Scottish knight, 

Eor love will still he lord of all. 

I tiffed to read this when I was a child, and wonder what 1 Carlisle wall* 
was.” 

Carlisle is one ox the most ancient cities in England, dating quite hack 
to the time of the Homans. Wonderful! How these Homans left their 
mark everywhere ! 

Carlisle has also its ancient castle; the lofty, massive tower of which 
forms a striking feature of the town. 

This castle was built by William Rufus. David, king of Scots, and 
Robert Bruce both tried their hands upon it, in the good old times,- Avhen 
England and Scotland were a mutual robbery association. Then the castle 
of the town was its great feature; castles were everything in those days. 
How the castle has gone to decay, and stands only for a curiosity, and the 
cotton factory has comef up in its place. This place is famous for cot¬ 
tons and ginghams, and moreover for a celebrated biscuit bakery. So 
goes the world,—the lively, vigorous shoots of the present springing out of 
the old, mouldering trunk of the past. 

Mr. S. was in an ecstasy about an old church, a splendid Gothic, in which 
Paley preached. He was archdeacon of Carlisle. We stopped here for a 
little while to take dinner. In a large, handsome room tables were set out, 
and we sat down to a regular meal. 

One sees nothing of a town from a railroad station, since it seems to he 
an invariable rule, not only here, hut all over Europe, to locate them so that 
you can see nothing from them. 

By the by, I forgot to say, among the historical recollections of this place, 
that it was the first stopping-place of Queen Mary, after her fatal flight 
into England. The rooms which she occupied are still shown in the castle, 
and there are interesting letters and documents extant from lords whom 
Elizabeth sent here to visit her, in which they record her beauty, her heroic 
sentiments, and even her dress; so strong was the fascination in which 
she held all who approached her. Carlisle is the scene of the denoue¬ 
ment of Guy Mannering, and it is from this town that Lord Carlisle gets 
his title. 

And now keep a bright look out for ruins and old houses. Mr. S., whose 
eyes are always in every place, allowed none of us to slumber, hut looking 
out, first on his own side and then on ours, called our attention to every visible 
thing. If he had been appointed on a mission of inquiry he could not have 
been more zealous ancl faithful, and I began to think that oxir desire for an 
English cicerone was quite superfluous. 

And now we pass Gretna Green, famous in story—that momentous place 
* which marks the commencement of Scotland. It is a little straggling village, 
and there is a roadside inn, which has been the scene of innumerable Gretna 
Green marriages. 

Owing to the fact that the Scottish law of marriage is far more liberal in 
its construction than the English, this place has been the refuge of dis¬ 
tressed lovers from time immemorial; and although the practice of escaping 
here is universally condemned as very naughty and improper, yet, like every 
other impropriety, it is kept in countenance by very respectable people. 








24 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN RANDS. 


Two lord chancellors have had the amiable weakness to fall into this snare, 
and one lord chancellor’s son ; so says the guide book, which is our Koran 
for the time being. It says, moreover, that it would be easy to add a 
lengthened list of clistinguSs married at Gretna Green ; but these lord chan¬ 
cellors (Erskine and Eldon) are quoted as being the most melancholy monu¬ 
ments. What shall meaner mortals do, when law itself, in all her majesty, 
wig, gown, and all, goes by the board ? 

Well, we are in Scotland at last, and now our pulse rises as the sun 
declines in the west. We catch glimpses of the Solway Frith and talk about 
Kedgauntlet. 

One says, “Do you remember the scene on the sea shore, with which it 
opens, describing the rising of the tide !” 

And says anothei*, “ Don’t you remember those lines in the Young Loch- 
invar song ?— 

* Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide.’ ” 

I wonder how many authors it will take to enchant our country from 
Maine to New Orleans, as evei’y foot of ground is enchanted here in 
Scotland. 

The sun went down, and night drew on ; still we were in Scotland. 
Scotch ballads, Scotch tunes, and Scotch literature were in the ascendant. 
We sang “ Auld Lang Syne,” “Scots wha ha’,” and “Bory^ie Doon,” and 
then, changing the key, sang Dundee, Elgin, and Martyrs, w 

“ Take care,” said Mr. S.; “don’t get too much excited.” 

“Ah,” said I, “this is a thing that comes only once in a lifetime; do 
let us have the comfort of it. We shall never come into Scotland for the 
first time again.” 

“Ah,” said another, “how I wish Walter Scott was alive!” 

While we were thus at the fusion point of enthusiasm, the cars stopped 
at Lockerby, where the real Old Moi'tality is buried. All was dim and 
dark outside, but we soon became conscious that there was quite a number 
collected, peering the window, and into with a sti’ange kind of thrill, I 
heard my name inquii'ed for in the Scottish accent. I went to the window; 
thei*e were men, women, and childi'en there, and hand after hand was 
presented, with the words, “Ye’re welcome to Scotland!” 

Then they inquired for, and shook hands with, all the party, having in 
some mystei'ious manner got the knowledge of who they were, even down 

to little G-, whom they took to be my son. Was it not pleasant, 

when I had a heart so warm for this old country ? I shall never forget the 
thrill of those words, “Ye’re welcome to Scotland,” nor the “ Gude 
night.” 

After we found similar welcomes in many succeeding stopping-places ; 
and though I did wave a towel out of the window, in,stead of a pocket- 
handkerchief, and commit other awkwardnesses, from not knowing how to 
play my part, yet I fancied, after all, that Scotland and we were coming 
on well together. Who the good souls wei'e that were thus watching for us 
through the night, I am sure I do not know; but that they were of 
the “ one blood,” which unites all the families of the earth, I felt. 

As we came towards Glasgow, we saw, upon a high hill, what we sup¬ 
posed to be a castle on fire—great volumes of smoke rolling up, and firq 
looking out of arched windows, 





GLASGOW. 


25 


“Dear me, what a conflagration !” we all exclaimed. "We had not gone 
very far before we saw another, and then, on the opposite side of the car, 
another still. 

“ Why, it seems to me the country is all on fire.” 

“ I should think,” said Mr. S., “ if it was in old times, that there had 
been a raid from the Highlands, and set all the houses on fire.” 

“ Or they might be beacons,” suggested C. 

To this some one answered out of the Lay of the Last Minstrel,— 

“ Sweet Teviot, by thy silver tide 
The glaring bale-fires blaze no more.” 

As we drew near to Glasgow these illuminations increased, till the whole 
air was red with the glare of them. 

“What can they be?” 

“Dear me,” said Mr. S., in a tone of sudden recollection, “it’s the iron 
works ! Don’t you know Glasgow is celebrated for its iron works ?” 

So, after all, in these peaceful fires of the iron works, we got an idea how 
the country might have looked in the old picturesque times, when the 
Highlanders came down and set the Lowlands on fire ; such scenes as 
are commemorated in the words of Roderick Dhu’s song :— 

“ Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, 

And Banmachar’s groans to our slogan replied ; 

Glen Luss and Ross Dhu, they are smoking in ruins, 

And the best of Loch Lomond lies dead on her side.” 

To be sure the fires of iron founderies are much less picturesque than 
the old beacons, and the clink of hammers than the clash of claymores; 
but the most devout worshipper of the middle ages would hardly wish to 
change them. 

Dimly, by the flickering light of these furnaces, we see the approach to 
the old city of Glasgow. There, we are arrived ! Friends are waiting in 
the station house. Earnest, eager, friendly faces,—ever so many. Warm 
greetings, kindly words. A crowd parting in the middle, through which 
we were conducted into a carriage, and loud cheers of welcome sent a throb, 
as the voice of living Scotland. 

I looked out of the carriage as we drove on, and saw, by the light of a 
lantern, Argyle Street. It was past twelve o’clock when I found myself 
in a warm, cozy parlour, with friends, whom I have ever since been glad 
to remember. In a little time we were all safely housed in our hospitable 
apartments, and sleep fell on me for the first time in Scotland. 

LETTER IV. 

THE BAILDIE.— THE CATHEDRAE.'—DE. WARDLAW.—A TEA PARTY.— 
BOTHWELL CASTLE.—CHIVALRY.—SCOTT AND BURNS. 

Dear Aunt E. :—- 

The next morning I awoke worn and weary, and scarce could the charms 
of the social Scotch breakfast restore me. I say Scotch, for we had many 
viands peculiarly national. The smoking porridge, or parritch, of oatmeal, 
which is the great staple dish throughout Scotland. Then there was the 
bannock, a thin, wafer-like cake of the same material. My friend laugh¬ 
ingly said when he passed it, “ You are in the ‘ land o’ cakes,’ remember.” 








20 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


There was also some herring, as nice a Scottish fish as ever wore scales, he* 
sides dainties innumerable which were not national. 

Our friend and host was Mr. Baillie Paton. I believe that it is to his 
suggestion in a public meeting, that we owe the invitation which brought 
us to Scotland. 

By the by, I should say that “ baillie” seems to correspond to what we 
call a member of the city council. Mr. Paton told us, that they had ex¬ 
pected us earlier, and that the day before quite a party of friends met at 
his house to see us, among whom was good old Dr. Wardlaw. 

After breakfast the calling began. First, a friend of the family, with 
three beautiful children, the youngest of whom was the bearer of a hand¬ 
somely bound album, containing a pressed collection of the sea mosses of 
the Scottish coast, very vivid and beautiful. 

If the bloom of English children appeared to me wonderful, I seemed to 
find the same thing intensified, if possible, in Scotland. The children are 
brilliant as pomegranate blossoms, and their vivid beauty called forth un¬ 
ceasing admiration. Nor is it merely the children of the rich, or of the 
higher classes, that are thus gifted. I have seen many a group of ragged 
urchins in the streets and closes with all the high colouring of Rubens, and 
all his fulness of outline. Why is it that we admire ragged children on 
canvas so much more than the same in nature? 

All this day is a confused dream to me of a dizzy and overwhelming 

kind. So many letters that it took C-from nine in the morning till 

two in the afternoon to read and answer them in the shortest manner; 
letters from all classes of people, high and low, rich and poor, in all shades 
and styles of composition, poetry and prose ; some mere outbursts of feel¬ 
ing ; some invitations; some advice and suggestions; some requests and 
inquiries; some presenting books, or flowers, or fruit. 

Then came, in their turn, deputations from Paisley, Greenock, Dundee, 
Aberdeen, Edinburgh, and Belfast in Ireland; calls of friendship, invita¬ 
tions of all descriptions to go everywhere, and to see everything, and to 
stay in so many places. One kind, venerable minister, with his lovely 
daughter, offered me a retreat in his quiet manse on the beautiful shores of 
the Clyde. 

For all these kindnesses, what could I give in return ? There was 
scarce time for even a gi’ateful thought on each. People Jiave often said to 
me that it must have been an exceeding bore. For my part, I could not 
think of regarding it so. It only oppressed me with an unutterable 
sadness. 

To me there is always something interesting and beautiful about a 
universal popular excitement of a generous character, let the object of it be 
what it may. The great desiring heart of man, surging with one strong, 
sympathetic swell, even though it be to break on the beach of life and fall 
backwards, leaving the sands as barren as before, has yet a meaning and a 
power in its restlessness, with which I must deeply sympathize. Nor do I 
sympathize any the less, when the individual, who calls forth such an out¬ 
burst, can be seen by the eye of sober sense to be altogether inadequate and 
disproportioned to it. 

1 do not regard it as anything against our American nation, that we are 
capable, to a very great extent, of these sudden personal enthusiasms, be¬ 
cause I think that, with an individual or a community, the capability of 



THE CATHEDRAL. 27 

being exalted into a temporary enthusiasm of self-forgetfulness, so far from 
being a fault, lias in it a quality of something divine. 

Of course, about all such things there is a great deal which a cool critic 
could make ridiculous, but I hold to my opinion of them nevertheless. 

In the afternoon I rode out with the lord provost to see the cathedral. 
The lord provost answers to the lord mayor in England. His title and 
office in both countries continue only a year, except in cases of re-election. 

As I saw the way to the cathedral blocked up by a throng of people, who 
had come out to see me, I could not help saying, “What went ye out for 
to see ? a reed shaken w r ith the wind ?” In fact, I was so worn out, that I 
could hardly walk through the building. 

It is in this cathedral that part of the scene of Rob Roy is laid. This 
was my first experience in cathedrals. It was a new thing to me alto¬ 
gether, and as I walked along under the old buttresses and battlements 
without, and looked into the bewildering labyrinths of architecture within, 
I saw that, with silence and solitude to help the impression, the old build¬ 
ing might become a strong part of one’s inner life. A graveyard crowded 
with flat stones lies all around it. A deep ravine separates it from another 
cemetery on an opposite eminence, rustling with dark pines. A little 
brook murmurs with its slender voice between. 

On this opposite eminence the statue of John Knox, grim and strong, 
stands with its arm uplifted, as if shaking his fist at the old cathedral 
which in life he vainly endeavoured to battle down. 

Knox w r as very different from Luther, in that he had no conservative 
element in him, but warred equally against accessories and essentials. 

At the time when the churches of Scotland were being pulled down in a 
general iconoclastic crusade, the tradesmen of Glasgow stood for the defence 
of their cathedral, and forced the reformers to content themselves with 
having the idolatrous images of saints pulled down from their niches and 
thrown into the brook, while, as Andrew Fairservice hath it, “ The auld 
kirk stood as crouse as a cat when the fleas are cairned aff her, and a’body 
was alike pleased.” 

We went all through the cathedral, which is fitted up as a Protestant 
place of worship, and has a simple and massive grandeur about it. In 
fact, to quote again from our friend Andrew, we could truly say, ‘ ‘ Ah, it’s 
a brave kirk, nane o’ yere whig-maleeries, and curliewurlies, and opensteek 
hems about it—a’ solid, weel-jointed mason wark, that will stand as lang 
as the warld, keep hands and gun-powther aff it,” 

I was disappointed in one thing: the painted glass, if there has ever 
been any, is almost all gone, and the glare of light through the immense 
windows is altogether too great, revealing many defects and rudenesses in 
the architecture, which would have quite another appearance in the coloured 
rays through painted windows—an emblem, perhaps, of the cold, definite, 
intellectual rationalism, which has taken the place of the many-coloured, 
gorgeous mysticism of former times. 

After having been over the church, we requested, out of respect to 
Bailie Nicol Jarvie’s memory, to be driven through the Sant Market. J, 
however, w'as so thoroughly tired that I cannot remember anything about it, 

I will say, by the way, that I have found out since, that nothing is so 
utterly hazardous to a person’s strength as looking at cathedrals. The 
strain upon the head and eyes in looking up through these immense arches, 





28 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREION LANDS. 


and then the sepulchral chill which abides from generation to generation in 
them, their great extent, and the variety which tempts you to fatigue which 
you are not at all aware of, have overcome, as I was told, many before me. i 

Mr. S. and C-, however, made amends, by their great activity and 

zeal, for all that I could not do, and I was pleased to understand from 
them, that part of the old Tolbooth, where Rob Roy and the bailie had 
their rencontre, was standing safe and sound, with stuff enough in it for 
half a dozen more stories, if anybody could be found to write them. And 
Mr. S. insisted upon it, that I should not omit to notify you of this cir¬ 
cumstance. 

Well, in consequence of all this, the next morning I was so ill as to need. 
a physician, unable to see any one that called, or to hear any of the letters. 

I passed most of the day in bed, but in the evening I had to get up, as I 
had engaged to drink tea with two thousand people. Our kind friends Dr. 
and Mrs. Wardlaw came after us, and Mr. S., and I went in the carriage 
with them. 

Dr. Wardlaw is a venerable-looking old man; we both thought we saw a 
striking resemblance in him to our friend Dr. Woods, of Andover. He is 
still quite active in body and mind, and officiates to his congregation with 
great acceptance. I fear, however, that he is in ill health, for I noticed, as 
we were passing along to church, that he frequently laid his hand upon his 
heart, and seemed in pain. He said he hoped he should be able to get 
through the evening, but that when he was not well, excitement was apt 
to bring on a spasm about the heart; but with it all he seemed so cheerful, 
lively, and benignant, that I could not but feel my affections drawn towaids 
him. Mrs. Wardlaw is a gentle, motherly woman, and it was a great com¬ 
fort to have her with me on such an occasion. 

Our carriage stopped at last at the place. I have a dim remembrance of 
a way being made for us through a great crowd all round the house, and of 
going with Mrs. Wardlaw up into a dressing-room, where I met and shook 
hands with many friendly people. Then we passed into a gallery, where a 
seat was reserved for our party, directly in front of the audience. Our 
friend Bailie Paton presided. Mrs. Wardlaw and I sat together, and around 
us many friends, chiefly ministers of the different churches, the ladies and 
gentlemen of the Glasgow Antislavery Society, and others. 

I told you it was a tea-party; but the arrangements were altogether 
different from any I had ever seen. There were narrow tables stretched up 
and down the whole extent of the great hall, and tfery person had au 
appointed seat. These tables were set out with cups and saucers, cakes, 
biscuit, &c., and when the proper time came, attendants passed along 
serving tea. The arrangements were so accurate and methodical that the 
whole multitude actually took tea together, without the least apparent 
inconvenience or disturbance. 

There was a gentle, subdued murmur of conversation all over the house, 
the sociable clinking of teacups and teaspoons, while the entertainment was 
going on. It seemed to me such an odd idea, I could not help wondering i 
what sort of a teapot that must be, in which all this tea for two thousand 
people was made. Truly, as Hadji Baba says, I think they must have had 
the “father of all teakettles” to boil it in. I could not help wondering if 
old mother Scotland had put two thousand teaspoonfuls of tea for the 
company, and one for the teapot, as is our good Yankee custom. 







A TEA PABTY. 


29 

We had quite a sociable time up in our gallery. Our tea table stretched 
quite across the gallery, and we drank tea “in sight of all the people.” By 
v;e, I mean a great number of minister's and their wives, and ladies of the 
Antislavery Society, besides our party, and the friends whom I have men¬ 
tioned before. All seemed to be enjoying themselves. 

Ater tea they sang a few verses of the seventy-second psalm in the old 
Scotch version. 

<f The people’s poor ones he shall judge, 

The needy’s children save ; 

And those shall he in pieces break. 

Who them oppressed have. 

“ For he the needy shall preserve. 

When he to bun doth call; 

The poor, also, and him that hath 
TSTo help of man at all. 

Both from deceit and violence 
Their soul he shall set free; 

And in his sight right precious 
And dear their blood shall be. 

** Now blessed be the Lord, our God, 

The God of Israel, 

For he alone doth wondrous work9. 

In glory that excel. 

“ And blessed be his glorious name 
To all eternity; 

t The whole earth let his glory fill: 

Amen; so let it be.” 

When I heard the united sound of all the voices, giving force to these 
simple and pathetic woi’ds, I thought I could see something of the reason 
why that rude old translation still holds its place in Scotland. 

The addresses were, many of them, very beautiful; the more so for the 
earnest and religious feeling which they manifested. That of Dr. Wardlaw, 
in particular, was full of comfort and encouragement, and breathed a most 
candid and catholic spirit. Could our friends in America see with what 
earnest warmth the religious heai't of Scotland beats towards them, they 
would be willing to suffer a word of admonition from those to whom love 
gives a right to speak. As Christians, all have a common interest in what 
honours or dishonours Christianity, and an ocean between us does not make 
us less one chui’ch. 

Most of the speeches you will see recorded in the papers. In the course 
of the evening there was a second service of grapes, oi'anges, and other 
fruits, served round in the same quiet manner as the tea. On account of 
the feeble state of my health, they kindly excused me before the exercises 
of the evening wei'e over. 

The next morning, at ten o’clock, we rode with a pai'ty of friends to see 
some of the 'notabilia. First, to Botkwell Castle, of old the residence of the 
Black Douglas. The name had for me the quality of enchantment, I 
cannot understand nor explain the natui’e of that sad yearning and longing 
with which one visits the mouldei'ing remains of a state of society which 
one’s reason wholly disapproves, and which one’s calm sense of right would 
think it the greatest misfortune to have l-ecalled; yet when the carriage 
turned under the shadow of beautiful ancient oaks, and Mr. S. said, 
“There, we are it the grounds of the old Black Douglas family!” I felt 


- , . 

SO SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

II 

every nerve shiver. I remembered the dim melodies of the * 1 Lady of tin 
Lake.” Bothwell’s lord was the lord of this castle, whose beautiful ruins j 
here adorn the banks of the Clyde. 

Whatever else we have or may have in America, we shall never have the 
wild, poetic beauty of these ruins. The present noble possessors are fullj 
aware of their worth as objects of taste, and, therefore, with the greatest 
care are they preserved. Winding walks are cut through the grounds witl 
much ingenuity, and seats or arbours are placed at every desirable and pic¬ 
turesque point of view. 

To the thorough-paced tourist, who wants to do the proprieties in the 
shortest possible time, this arrangement is undoubtedly particularly satis¬ 
factory ; but to the idealist, who would like to roam, and dream, and feel, 
and to come unexpectedly on the choicest points of view, it is rather a 
damper to have all his raptures prearranged and foreordained for him, set 
down in the guide book and proclaimed by the guide, even though it should 
be done with the most artistic accuracy. 

Nevertheless, when we came to the arbour which commanded the fines! 
view of the old castle, and saw its grey, ivy-clad walls, standing forth on a 
beautiful point, round which swept the brown, dimpling waves of the Clyde, 
the indescribable sweetness, sadness, wildness of the whole scene would 
make its voice heard in our hearts. ‘ ‘ Thy servants take pleasure in her 
dust, and favour the stones thereof,” said an old Hebrew poet, who must 
have felt the inexpressibly sad beauty of a ruin. All the splendid phan¬ 
tasmagoria of chivalry and feudalism, knights, ladies, banners, glittering 
arms, sweep before us; the cry of the battle, the noise of the captains, and 
the shouting; and then in contrast this deep stillness, that green, clinging : 
ivy, the gentle, rippling river, those weeping birches, dipping in its soft 
waters—all these, in their quiet loveliness, speak of something more im¬ 
perishable than brute force. 

The ivy on the walls now displays a trunk in some places as large as a 
man’s body. In the days of old Archibald the Grim, I suppose that ivy 
was a little, weak twig, which, if he ever noticed, he must have thought : 
the feeblest and slightest of all things; yet Archibald has gone back to dust, 
and the ivy is still growing on. Such force is there in gentle things. 

I have often been dissatisfied with the admiration, which a poetic educa¬ 
tion has woven into my nature, for chivalry and feudalism; but, on a closer 
examination, I am convinced that there is a real and proper foundation for 
it, and that, rightly understood, this poetic admiration is not inconsistent 
with the spirit of Christ. 

For, let us consider what it is we admire in these Douglases, for instance 
who, as represented by Scott, are perhaps as good exponents of the idea 
as any. Was it their hardness, their cruelty, their hastiness to take 
offence, their fondness for blood and murder? All these, by and of them¬ 
selves, are simply disgusting. What, then, do we admire? Their courage, 
their fortitude, their scorn of lying and dissimulation, their high sense oil 
personal honour, which led them to feel themselves the protectors of the- 
weak, and to disdain to take advantage of unequal odds against an enemy. 
If we read the book of Isaiah, we shall see that some of the most striking 
representations of God appeal to the very same principles of our nature. 

The fact is, there can be no reliable character which has not its basis in 
these strong qualities. The beautiful must ever rest in the arms of the 





BOTnWELL CASTLE. 


'31 

sublime. The gentle needs the strong to sustain it, as much as the rock 
flowers need rocks to grow on, or yonder ivy the rugged wall which it 
embraces. When we are admiring these things, therefore, we are only 
admiring some sparkles and glimmers of that which is divine, and so 
coming nearer to Him in whom all fulness dwells. 

After admiring at a distance, we strolled through the ruins themselves. 
Do you remember, in the Lady of the Lake, where the exiled Douglas, 
recalling to his daughter the images ox his former splendour, says,— 

“ When Blantyre hymned her holiest lays, 

And liothwelTs •walls flung back the praise” ? 

These lines came forcibly to my mind, wlien I saw the mouldering ruins 
of Blantyre priory rising exactly opposite to the castle, on the other side 
of the Clyde. 

The banks of the river Clyde, where we walked, were thick set with 
Portuguese laurel, which I have before mentioned as similar to our rhodo¬ 
dendron. I here noticed a fact with regard to the ivy which had often puz¬ 
zled me ; and that is, the diff uent shapes of its leaves in the different stages 
of its growth. The young ivy has a traced and indented leaf; but when it 
has become more than a century old every trace and indentation melts away, 
and it assumes a form which I found afterwards to he the invariable 
shape of all the oldest ivy, in all the ruins of Europe which I explored. 

This ivy, like the spidex, takes hold with her hands in kings’ palaces, 
as every twig is furnished with innumerable little clinging fingers, by 
which it draws itself close, as it were, to the very heart of the old rough 
stone. 

Its clinging and beautiful tenacity has given rise to an abundance of 
conceits about fidelity, friendship, and woman’s love, which have become 
commonplace simply from their appi opriateness. It might, also, symbolize 
| that higher love, unconqueiable and unconquered, which has embraced 
this ruined world from age to age, silently spreading its green over the 
rents and fissures of our fallen nature, giving “beauty for ashes, and gar¬ 
ments of praise for the spirit of heaviness.” 

There is a modern mansion, where the present proprietor of the estate 
lives. It was with an emotion partaking of the sorrowful, that we heard 
1 that the Douglas line, as such, was extinct, and that the estate had passed 
1 to distant connexions. I was told that the present Lord Douglas is a 
peaceful clergyman, quite a different character from old Archibald the 
Grim. 

The present residence is a plain mansion, standing on a beautiful lawn, 
li near the old castle. The head gardener of the estate and many of the 
i servants came out to meet us, with faces full of interest. The gardener 
■ walked about to show us the localities, and had a great deal of the quiet 
-1 intelligence and self-respect which, I think, is characteristic of the labour¬ 
s’ ing classes here. I noticed that on the green sweep of the lawn, he had 
; set out here and there a good many daisies, as embellishments to the grass, 

• and these in many places were defended by sticks bent over them, and 
; that, in one place, a bank overhanging the stream was radiant with yellow 
daffodils, which appeared to have come up and blossomed there accidentally. 
i I know not whether these were planted there, or came up of themselves. 

We next went to the famous Bothwell bridge, which Scott has irninor- 









SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


qo 




talized in Old Mortality. We walked up and down, trying to recall the ' 
scenes of the battle, as there described, and were rather mortified, after 
we had all our associations comfortably located upon it, to be told that it 
was not the same bridge—it had been newly built, widened, and otherwise 1 
made more comfortable and convenient. 

Of course, this was evidently for the benefit of society, but it was cer¬ 
tainly one of those cases where the poetical suffers for the practical. 1 
comforted myself in my despondency, by looking over at the old stone 
piers underneath, which were indisputably the same. We drove now 
through beautiful grounds, and alighted at an elegant mansion, which in 
former days belonged to Lockhart, the son-in-law of Scott. It was in 
this house that Old Mortality was written. 

As I was weary, the party left me here, while they went on to see the 
Duke of Hamilton’s grounds. Our kind hostess showed me into a small 
study, where she said Old Mortality was written. The window com- i 
mantled a beautiful view of many of the localities described. Scott was 
as particular to consult for accuracy in his local descriptions as if he had 
been writing a guide book. 

He was in the habit of noting down in his memorandum book ever 
names and characteristics of the wild flowers and grasses that grew abouf 
a place. When a friend once remarked to him, that he should have sup¬ 
posed his imagination could have supplied such trifles, he made an answei 
that is worth remembering by every artist—that no imagination could 
long support its freshness, that was not nourished by a constant and minuts 
observation of nature. 

Craignethan Castle, which is the original of Tillietudlem, we were 
informed, was not far from thence. It is stated in Lockhart’s Life of 
Scott, that the ruins of this castle excited in Scott such delight and enthu¬ 
siasm, that its owner urged him to accept for his lifetime the use of a small 
habitable house, enclosed within the circuit of the walls. 

After the return of the party from Hamilton Park, we sat down to an 
elegant lunch, where my eye was attracted more than anything else, by 
the splendour of the hothouse flowers which adorned the table. So far as 
I have observed, the culture of flowers, both in England and Scotland, is 
more universally an object of attention than with us. Every family in 
easy circumstances seems, as a matter of course, to have their greenhouse 
ancl the flowers are brought to a degree of perfection which I have never 
seen at home. 9 

I may as well say here, that we were told by a gentleman, whose name 
I do not now remember, that this whole district had been celebrated foi 
its orchards; he added, however, that since the introduction of the American 
apple into the market, its superior excellence had made many of these 
orchards almost entirely worthless. It is a curious fact, showing how the 
new world is working on the old. 

After taking leave of our hospitable friends, we took to our carriages 
again. As we were driving slowly through the beautiful grounds, admir¬ 
ing, as Ave never fail to do, their perfect cultivation, a party of servants 
appeared in sight, waving their hats and handkerchiefs, and cheering us as 
we passed. These kindly expressions from them were as pleasant as any 
we received. 

In the evening we had engaged to attend another soiree, gotten up by 




SOIREE OP THE WORKING- CLASSES. 


83 

ihe working classes, to give admission to many who were not in circum¬ 
stances to purchase tickets for the other. This was to me, if anything, 
a more interesting reunion, because this was just the class whom I wished 
to meet. The arrangements of the entertainment were like those of the 
evening before. 

As I sat in the front gallery and looked over the audience with an intense 
interest, I thought they appeared on the whole very much like what I 
might have seen at home in a similar gathering. Men, women, and children 
were dressed in a style which showed both self-respect and good taste, and 
the speeches were far above mediocrity. One pale young man, a watch¬ 
maker, as I was told afterwards, delivered an address, which, though 
■doubtless it had the promising fault of too much elaboration and ornament, 
yet I thought had passages which would do honour to any literary periodical 
whatever. 

There were other orators less highly finished, who yet spoke ‘ ‘ right on, ” 
in a strong, forcible, and really eloquent way, giving the grain of the wood 
without they varnish. The contended very seriously and sensibly, that 
although the working men of England and Scotland had many things to 
tomplain of, and many things to be reformed, yet their condition was world¬ 
wide diffei'ent from that of the slave. 

One cannot read the history of the working classes in England, for the 
last fifty years, without feeling sensibly the difference between oppressions 
under a free government and slavery. So long as the working class of 
England produces orators and writers, such as it undoubtedly has produced; 
bo long as it has in it that spirit of independence and resistance of wrong, 
which has shown itself more and more during the agitations of the last 
.fifty years; and so long as the law allows them to meet and debate, to form 
associations and committees, to send up remonstrances and petitions to 
government,—one can see that their case is essentially different from that 
of plantation slaves. 

I must say, I was struck this night with the resemblance between 
the Scotchman and the New Englander. One sees the distinctive nation¬ 
ality of a country more in the middle and labouring classes than in the 
higher, and accordingly at this meeting there was more national'ty, I 
thought, than at the other. 

The highest class of mind in all countries loses nationality, and becomes 
universal; it is a great pity, too, because nationality is picturesque always. 
One of the greatest miracles to my mind about Kossuth was, that with so 
universal an education, and such an extensive range of languago and 
thought, he was yet so distinctively a Magyar. 

One thing has surprised and rather disappointed us. Our enthusiasm 
for Walter Scott does not apparently meet a response in the popular breast. 
Allusions to Bannockburn and Drumclog bring down the house, but enthu¬ 
siasm for Scott was met with comparative silence. We discussed this matter 
among ourselves, and rather wondered at it. 

The fact is, Scott belonged to a past, and not to the coming age. He 
beautified and adorned that which is waxing old and passing away. He 
loved and worshipped in his very soul institutions which the majhriy of 
the common people have felt as a restraint and a burden. One mAfnfr 
naturally get a very different idea of a feudal castle by starving to dea+h in 
the dungeon of it, than by writing sonnets on it at a picturesque distance. 


34 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


Now, we in America are so far removed from feudalism,—it has been & 
thing so much of mere song and story with us, and our sympathies are so 
unchecked by any experience of inconvenience or injustice in its conse¬ 
quences,—that we are at full liberty to appreciate the picturesque of it, 
and sometimes, when we stand overlooking our own beautiful scenery, to 
wish that we could see, 

“ On yon bold brow, a lordly tower; 

In that soft vale, a lady’s bower; 

In yonder meadow, far away. 

The turrets of a cloister gray;” 

when those who know by experience all the accompaniments of these 
ornaments, would have quite another impression. 

Nevertheless, since there are two worlds in man, the real and the ideal, 
and both have indisputably a right to be, since God made the faculties of 
both, -we must feel that it is a benefaction to mankind, that Scott was thus 
raised up as the link, in the ideal world, between the present and the past. 
It is a loss to universal humanity to have the imprint of any phase of 
human life and experience entirely blotted out. Scott’s fictions are like 
this beautiful ivy, with which all the ruins here are overgrown,—they not 
only adorn, but, in many cases, they actually hold together, and prevent 
the crumbling mass from falling into ruins. 

To-morrow we are going to have a sail on the Clyde. 


LETTER Y. 

DITMEARTOX CASTLE.—DUKE OE ARGTLE.—LIXLIMGOW.—EDINBURGH. 

April 17. 

My dear Sister:— 

To-day a large party of us started on a small steamer, to go down the 
Clyde. It has been a very, very exciting day to us. It is so stimulating 
to be where every name is a poem. For instance, we started at the 
Broomielaw. This Broomielaw is a kind of wharf, or landing. Perhaps 
in old times it was haugh overgrown with broom, from whence it gets its 
name ; this is only my conjecture however. 

We have a small steamer quite crowded with people, qur excursion party 
being very numerous. In a few minutes after starting, somebody says,— 

“ 0, here’s where the Kelvin enters.” This starts up,— 

“ Let us baste to Kelvin Grove.” 

Then soon we are coming to Dumbarton Castle, and all the tears we shed 
over Miss Porter’s William Wallace seem to rise up like a many-coloured 
mist about it. The highest peak of the rock is still called Wallace’s Seat, 
and a part of the castle, Wallace’s Tower; and in one of its apartments a 
huge two-handed sword of the hero is still shown. I suppose, m fact, 
Miss Porter’s sentimental hero is about as much like the real William Wal¬ 
lace as Daniel Boone is like Sir Charles Grandison. Many a ypung lady, 
wV has cried herself sick over Wallace in the novel, would have been in 
perfect horror if she could have seen the real man. Still Dumbarton Castle 
is not a whit the less picturesque for that. 








DUKE OF ARGYIE. 85 

Now comes the Leven,—that identical Leven Water known in song,— 
ind on tlie right is Leven Grove. 

“ There,” said somebody to me, “is the old mansion of the Earls of 
Glencairu.” Quick as thought, flashed through my mind that most elo¬ 
quent of Burns’s poems, the Lament for James, Earl of Glencairu. 

“ The bridegroom may forget the bride 
Was made his wedded wife yestreen; 

The monarch may forget the crown 
That on his head an hour hath been; 

The mother may forget the child 
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee j 
But I’ll remember thee, Glencairu, 

And a’ that thou hast done for me.” mi 

This mansion is now the seat of Graham of Gartmor. 

Now we are shown the remains of old Cardross Castle, where it was said 
Robert Bruce breathed his last. And now we come near the beautiful 
grounds of Roseneath, a green, velvet-like peninsula, stretching out into 
the widening waters. 

“Peninsula!” said C-. “Why, Walter Scott said it was an 

island.” 

Certainly, he did declare most explicitly in the person of Mr. Archibald, 
the Duke of Argyle’s serving man, to Miss Dolly Dutton, when she insisted 
on going to it by land, that Roseneath was an island. It shows that the 
most accurate may be caught tripping sometimes. 

Of course our heads were full of David Deans, Jeanie, and Effie, but we 
saw nothing of them. The Duke of Argyle’s Italian mansion is the most 
conspicuous object. 

Hereupon there was considerable discussion on the present Puke of 
Argyle among the company, fi’crn which we gathered that he stood high in 
favour with the popular mind. One said that there had been an old pro¬ 
phecy, probably uttered somewhere up in the Highlands, where such 
things are indigenous, that a very good Duke of Argyle was to arise having 
red hair, and that the present duke had verified the prediction by uniting 
both requisites. They say that he is quite a young man, with a small, 
slight figure, but with a great deal of energy and acuteness of mind, and 
with the generous and noble traits which have distinguished his house in 
former times. He was a pupil of Dr. Arnold, a member of the National 
Scotch Kirk, and generally understood to be a serious and religious man. 
He is one of the noblemen who have been willing to come forward and make 
use of his education and talent in the way of popular lectures at lyceums 
and athemeuras; as have also the Duke of Newcastle, the Earl of Carlisle, 
and some others. So the world goes on. I must think, with all deference 
to poetry, that it is much better to deliver a lyceuin lecture than to head a 
clan in battle; though I suppose, a century and a half ago, had the thing 
been predicted to MeCallummore’s old harper, he would have been greatly 
at a loss to comprehend the nature of the transaction. 

Somewhere about here, I was presented, by his own request, to a broad- 
shouldered Scotch farmer, who stood some six feet two, and, who paid me 
the compliment to say, that he had read my book, and that he would walk 
six miles to see me any day. Such a flattering evidence of discriminating 
taste, of course, disposed my heart towards him; but when I went up and 
put my hand into his great prairie of a palm, I was as a grasshopper in mf 






30 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


own eyes. I inquired wlio lie was, and was told he was one of the Duke 
of Argyle’s farmers. I thought to myself, if all the duke’s farmers were of 
this pattern, that he might be able to speak to the enemy in the gates to 
some purpose. 

Itoseneath occupies the ground between the Gare Loch and Loch Long. 
The Gare Loch is the name given to a bay formed by the River Clyde, here 
stretching itself out like a lake. Here we landed and went on shore, pass¬ 
ing along the sides of the loch, in the little village of Row. 

As we were walking along a carnage came up after us, in which were 
two ladies. A bunch of primroses, thrown from this carriage, fell at my 
feet. I picked it up, and then the carriage stopped, ar.d the ladies re¬ 
quested to know if I was Mrs. Stowe. On answering in the affirmative, 
they urged me so earnestly to come under their roof and take some refresh¬ 
ment, that I began to remember, what I had partly lost sight of, that I 
was very tired; so, while the rest of the party walked on to get a distant 
view of Ben Lomond, Mr. S. and I suffered ourselves to be taken into the 
carriage of our unknown friends, and carried up to a charming little Italian 
villa, which stood, surrounded by flower gardens and pleasure grounds, at 
the head of the loch. We were ushered into a most comfortable parlour, 
where a long window, made of one clear unbroken sheet of plate glass, gave 
a perfect view of the loch with all its woody shores, with Roseneatli Castle 
in the distance. My good hostesses literally overwhelmed me with kind¬ 
ness ; but as there was nothing I really needed so much as a little quiet 
rest, they took me to a cozy bedroom, of which they gave me the freedom, 
for the present. Does not every traveller know what a pleasure it is to 
shut one’s eyes sometimes? The chamber, which is called “Peace,” is 
now, as it was in Christian’s days, one of the best things that Charity 
cr Piety could-offer to the pilgrim. Here I got a little brush from the wings 
of dewy-feathered sleep. 

After a while our party came back, and we had to be moving. My kind 
friends expressed so much joy at having met me, that it was really almost 
embarrassing. They told me that they, being confined to the house by ill 
health, and one of them by lameness, had had no hope of ever seeing me, 
and that this meeting seemed a wonderful gift of Providence. They bade 
me take courage and hope, for they felt assured that the Lord would yet 
entirely make an end of slavery through the world. 

It was concluded, after we left here, that, instead of returning by the 
boat, we should take carriage and ride home along the b.ftiks of the river. 
In our carriage were Mr. S. and myself, Dr. Robson and Lady Anderson. 
About this time I commenced my first essay towards 'giving titles, and 
made, as you may suppose, rather an odd piece of work of itj' generally say¬ 
ing “Mrs.” first, and “Lady” afterwards, and then begging pardon. 
Lady Anderson laughed, and said she would give me a general absolution. 
She is a truly genial, hearty Scotchwoman, and seemed to enter haWly 
into the spirit of the hour. 

As we rode on we found that the news of our coming had spread through 
the village. People came and stood in their doors, beckoning, bowing, 
smiling, and waving their handkerchiefs, and the carriage was several times 
stopped by persons who came to offer flowers. I remember, in particular, 
a group of young girls brought to the carriage two of the most beautiful 
children I ever saw, whose little hands literally deluged us with flowers.' 



BTJBNS. 


37 

At the village of Helensburgh we stopped a little while to call upon Mrs. 
Bell, the wife of Mr. Bell, the inventor of the steamboat. His invention in 
this country was about the same time of that of Fulton in America. Mrs. 
Bell came to the carriage to speak to us. She is a venei'able woman, far 
advanced in years. They had prepared a lunch for us, and quite a number 
of people had come together to meet us, but our friends said that there was 
not time for us to stop. 

We rode through several villages after this, and met quite warm wel¬ 
come. What pleased me was, that it was not mainly from the literary, nor 
the rich, nor the great, but the plain common people. The butcher came 
out of his stall, and the baker from his shop, and the miller, dusty with 
his flour, the blooming, comely, young mother, with her baby in her arms, 
all smiling and bowing with that hearty, intelligent, friendly look, as if 
they knew we should be glad to see them. 

Once, while we stopped to change horses, I, for the sake of seeing some¬ 
thing more of the country, walked on. It seems the honest landlord and 
his wife were greatly disappointed at this; however, they got into the 
carriage and rode on to see me, and I shook hands with them with a right 
good will. 

We saw several of the clergymen, who came out to meet us, and I re¬ 
member stopping, just to be introduced to a most delightful family who 
came out, one by one, gray-headed father and mother, with comely brothers 
and fair sisters, looking all so kindly and home-like, that I would have 
been glad to use the welcome that they gave me to their dwelling. 

This day has been a strange phenomenon to me. In the first place, I 
have seen in all these villages how universally the people read. I have 
seen how capable they are of a generous excitement and enthusiasm, and 
how much may be done by a work of fiction, so written as to enlist those 
sympathies which are common to all classes. Certainly, a great deal may 
be effected in this way, if God gives to any one the power, as I hope he will 
to many. The power of fictitious writing, for good as well as evil, is a 
thing which ought most seriously to be reflected on. No one can fail to see 
that in our day it is becoming a very great agency. 

We came home quite tired, as you may well suppose. You will not be 
surprised that the next day I found myself more disposed to keep my bed 
than to go out. I regretted it, because, being Sunday, I would like to have 
heard some of the preachers of Glasgow. I was, however, glad of one quiet 
day to recall my thoughts, for I had been whirling so rapidly from scene to 
scene, that I needed time to consider where I was; especially as we were to 
go to Edinburgh on the morrow. 

Towards sunset Mr. S. and I strolled out entirely alone to breathe a little 
fresh air. We walked along the banks of the Kelvin, quite down to its 
junction with the Clyde. The Kelvin Grove of the ballad is all cut away, 
and the Kelvin flows soberly between stone walls, with a footpath on each 
side, like a stream that has learned to behave itself. 

“There,” said Mr. S., as we stood on the banks of the Clyde, now lying 
flushed and tranquil in the light of the setting sun, “over there is 
Ayrshire.” 

G Ayrshire?” I said, “ What, where Burns lived?” 

‘I Yes, there is his cottage, far down to the south, and out of sight, of 
coulee; and there are the bonny banks of Ayr,” 






SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LINDS. 


88 

It seemed as if the evening air brought a kind of sigh with it. Poor 
Burns ! how inseparably he has woven himself with the warp and woof of 
every Scottish association ! 

We. saw a great many children of the poor out playing—rosy, fine little 
urchins, worth, any one of them, a dozen bleached, hothouse flowers. We 
stopped to hear them talk, and it was amusing to hear the Scotch of Sir 
Walter Scott and Burns shouted out with such a right good will. We were 
as much struck by it as an honest Yankee was in Paris by the proficiency 
of the children in speaking French. 

The next day we bade farewell to Glasgow, overwhelmed with kindness 
to the last, and only oppressed by the thought, how little that was satis¬ 
factory we were able to give in return. 

Again in the railroad car on our way to Edinburgh. A pleasant two 
hours’ trip is this from Glasgow to Edinburgh. When the cars stopped at 
Linlithgow station, the name started us as out of a dream. 

There, sure enough, before our eyes, on a gentle eminence stood the 
mouldering ruins of which Scott has sung:— 


“ Of all the palaces so fair, 

Built for the royal dwelling, 

In Scotland, far beyond compare 
Linlithgow is excelling; 

And in its park in genial June, 

How sweet the merry linnet’s tune. 

How blithe the blackbird’s lay! 

The wild buck’s bells from thorny brake. 
The coot dives merry on the lake,— 

The saddest heart might pleasure take, 
To see a scene so gay.” 


Here was horn that woman whose beauty and whose name are set in the 
strong, rough Scotch heart, as a diamond in granite. Poor Mary ! When 
her father, who lay on his deathbed at that time in Falkland, was told of 
her birth, he answered, “Is it so? Then God’s will be done! It [the 
kingdom] came with a lass, and it will go with a lass !”• With these words 
ho turned his face to the wall, and died of a broken heart. Certainly, some 
people appear to be born under an evil destiny. 

Here, too, in Linlithgow church, tradition says that James IV. was 
warned, by a strange apparition, against that expedition to England which 
cost him liis life. Scott has worked this incident up* into 'a beautiful 
description in the fourth canto of Marmion. 

The castle has a very sad and romantic appearance, standing there all 
alone as it does, looking down into the quiet lake. It is said that the in¬ 
ternal architectural decorations are exceedingly rich and beautiful, and a 
resemblance has been traced between its style of ornament and that of 
Heidelberg Castle, which has been accounted for by the fact that the Prin¬ 
cess Elizabeth, who was the sovereign lady of Heidelberg, spent many of 
the earlier years of her life in this place. 

Hot far from here we caught a glimpse of the ruins of Niddrie Castle, 
where Mary spent the first night after her escape from Lochleven. 

The Avon here at Linlithgow is spanned by a viaduct, which is a fine 
work of art. It has twenty-five arches, which are from seventy to eighty- 
feet high and fifty wide. 
















EDINBURGH. 


SO 

As the ears neared Edinburgh we all exclaimed at its beauty, so worthily 
commemorated by Scott:— 

“ Siich dusky grandeur clothes the height, 

"Where the huge castle holds its state. 

And all the steeps slope down, 

"Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, 

Piled deep and massy, close and high, 

Mine own romantic town 1” 

Edinburgh has had an effect on the literary history of the world for the 
last fifty years, that cannot be forgotten by any one approaching her. The 
air seemed to be full of spirits of those who, no longer living, have woven a 
part of the thread of our existence. I do not know that the shortness of 
human life ever so oppressed me as it did on coming near to the city. 

At the station house the cars stopped amid a crowd of people, who had 
assembled to meet us. The lord provost met us at the door of the car, and 
presented us to the magistracy of the city, and the committees of the Edin¬ 
burgh antislavery societies. The drab dresses and pure white bonnets of 
many Friends were conspicuous among the dense moving crowd, as white 
doves seen against a dark cloud. Mr. S. and myself, and our future hostess, 
Mrs. Wigham, entered the carriage with the lord provost, and away we 
drove, the crowd following with their shouts and cheers. I was inexpres¬ 
sibly touched and affected by this. While we were passing the monument 
of Scott, I felt an oppressive melancholy. What a moment life seems in 
the presence of the noble dead ! What a momentary thing is ai't, in all its 
beauty! Where are all those great souls that have created such an at¬ 
mosphere of light about Edinburgh ? and how little a space was given them 
to live and to enjoy ? 

We drove all over Edinburgh, up to the castle, to the university, to 
Holyrood, to the hospitals, and through many of the principal streets, amid 
shouts, and smiles, and greetings. Some boys amused me very much by 
their pertinacious attempts to keep up with the carriage. 

“ Heck,” says one of them, “that’s her; see the courts.” 

The various engravers, who have amused themselves by diversifying my 
face for the public, having all, with great unanimity, agreed in giving pro¬ 
minence to this point, I suppose the urchins thought they were on safe 
ground there. I certainly think I answered one good purpose that day, 
and that is, of giving the much oppressed and calumniated class, called 
boys, an opportunity to develop all the noise that was in them—a thing for 
which I think they must bless me in their remembrances. 

At last the carriage drove into a deep gravelled yard, and we alighted at a 
porch covered with green ivy, and found ourselves once more at home. 


LETTER VI. 

JIIBLIC SOIREE.—DR. GUTHRIE.—CRAIGMILLEB CASTLE.—BASS ROCK.—BANNOCK¬ 
BURN.—STIRLING.—GLAMIS CASTLE.—BARCLAY OR HEY.—THE DEE.—ABERDEEN. 
—THE CATHEDRAL.—BRIG O’ BALGOUNIE. 

My dear Sister:— 

You may spare your anxieties about me, for I do assure you, that if I 
were an old Sevres China jar, I could not have more careful handling than 
I do. Everybody is considerate; a great deal to say, when there appears to be 





40 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


so much excitement. Everybody seems to understand how good for nothing I 
am; and yet, with all this consideration, I have been obliged to keep my 
room and bed for a good part of the time. One agreeable feature of the 
matter is, it gave me an opportunity to make the acquaintance of the cele¬ 
brated homoeopathic physician, Dr. Henderson, in whose experiments and ex¬ 
perience I had taken some interest while in America. 

Of the multitudes who have called, I have seen scarcely any. 

Mrs. W., with whom I am staying, is a most thoughtful nurse. They 
are Friends, and nothing can be more a pattern of rational home enjoyment, 
without ostentation, and without parade, than a Quaker family. 

Though they reject everything in arrangement which savours of ostenta¬ 
tion and worldly show, yet their homes are exquisite in point of comfort. 
They make great use of flowers and natural specimens in adorning their 
apartments, and also indulge to a chaste and moderate extent in engtavings 
and works of art. So far as I have observed,they are all “teetotallers;” giving, 
in this respect, the whole benefit of their example to the temperance cause. 

To-morrow evening is to be the great tea party here. How in the world 
I am ever to live through it, I don’t know. 

The amount of letters we found waiting here for us in Edinburgh was, 
if possible, more appalling than in Glasgow. Among those from persons 
whom you would be interested in hearing of, I may mention a very kind 
and beautiful one from the Duchess of Sutherland, and one also from the 
Earl of Carlisle, both desiring to make appointments for meeting us as soon 
as we come to London. Also a very kind and interesting note from the 
Dev. Mr. Kingsley and lady. I look forward with a great deal of interest 
to passing a little time with them in their rectory. Letters also from Mr. 
Binney and Mr. Sherman, two of the leading Congregational clergymen of 
London. The latter officiates at Surrey Chapel, which was established by 
Howland Hill. Both contain invitations to us to visit them in London. 

As to all engagements, I am in a state of happy acquiescence, having 
resigned myself, as a very tame lion, into the hands of my keepers. When¬ 
ever the time comes for me to do anything, I try to behave aswell as I can, 
which, as Dr. Young says, is all that an angel could do in the same circum¬ 
stances. 

As to these letters, many of them are mere outbursts of feeling, yet they 
are interesting as showing the state of the public mind. Many of them are 
on kindred topics of moral reform, in which they seem tc Lave an intuitive 
sense that we should be interested. I am not, of course, able to answer 

them all, but C-does, and it takes a good part of every day. One was 

from a shoemaker’s wife in one of the islands, with a copy of very fail 
verses. Many have come accompanying little keepsakes and gifts. It seems to 
me rather touching and sad, that people should want to give me things, 

when I am not able to give an interview, or even a note, in return. C-i 

wrote from six to twelve o’clock, steadily, answering letters. 

April 26. Last night came off the soiree. The hall was handsomely 
decorated with flags in front. We went with the lord provost in his car¬ 
riage. The getting into the hall is quite an affair, I assure you, the door¬ 
way is blocked up by such a dense crowd; yet there is something very 
touching about these crowds. They open very gently and quietly, and they 
do not look at you with a rude stare, but with faces full of feeling and 
intelligence. I have seen some looks that were really beautiful; they go 












DR. GUTHRIE. 41 

to my heart. The common people appear as If they knew that cnr hearts 
were with them. How else should it be, as Christians of America?—a 
country, which, but for one fault, all the world has reason to love. 

We went up, as before, into a dressing room, where I was presented to 
many gentlemen and ladies. When we go in, the cheering, clapping, and 
stamping at first strikes one with a strange sensation; but then everybody 
looks so heartily pleased and delighted, and there is such an all-pervading 
atmosphere of geniality and sympathy, as makes one in a few moments feel 
quite at home. After all I consider that these cheers and applauses, are 
Scotland’s voice to America, a recognition of the brotherhood of the 
countries. 

We were arranged at this meeting much as in Glasgow. The lord provost 
presided; and in the gallery with us were distinguished men from the 
magistracy, the university, and the ministry, with their wives, besides the 
members of the anti-sla-very societies. The lord provost, I am told, has 
been particularly efficient in all benevolent operations, especially those for 
the education of the poorer classes. He is also a zealous supporter of the 
temperance cause. 

Among the speakers, I was specially interested in Dr Guthrie, who 
seems to be also a particular favourite of the public. He is a tall, thin man, 
with a kind of quaintness in his mode of expressing himself, which some¬ 
times gives an air of drollery to his speaking. He is a minister of the Free 
Church, and has more particularly distinguished himself by his exertions 
in behalf of the poorer classes. 

One passage in his speech I will quote, for I was quite amused with it. 
It was in allusion to the retorts which had been made in Mrs. Tyler’s letter 
to the ladies of England, on the defects in the old country. 

“I do not deny,” he said, “that there are defects in our country. 
What I say of them is this—that they are incidental very much to an old 
country like our own. Dr. Simpson knows very well, and so does every 
medical man, that when a man gets old he gets very infirm, his bloodvessels 
get ossified, and so on ; but I shall not enter into that part of the subject. 
What is true of an old country is true of old men, and old women, too. I 
am very much disposed to say of this young nation of America, that their 
teasing us with our defects might just get the answer which a worthy 
member of the church of Scotland gave to his son, who was so dissatisfied 
with the defects in the church, that he was determined to go over to a 
younger communion. ‘ Ah, Sandy, Sandy, man, when your lum reeks as 
langas ours, it will, may be, need sweeping too.’* Now, I do not deny that 
we need sweeping; everybody knows that I have been singing out about 
sweeping for the last five years. Let me tell my good friends in Edinburgh, 
and in the country, that the sooner you sweep the better; for the chimney 
may catch fire, and reduce your noble fabric to ashes. 

‘ ‘ They told us in that letter about the poor needlewomen, that had to 
work sixteen hours a day. ‘ ’Tis true, and pity ’tis ’tis true.’ But does 
the law compel them to work sixteen hours a day ? I would like to ask the 
writer of the letter. Are they bound down to their garrets and cellars for 
sixteen hours a day ? May they not go where they like, and ask better 
wages and better work? Can the slave do that? Do they tell us of our 

* When your chimney has smoked as long as ours, it will, may be, need sweep¬ 
ing too. 



42 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


ragged children? I know something about ragged children. But are our 
ragged children condemned to the street? If I, or the lord provost, or any 
other benevolent man should take one of them from the street and bring it 
to the school, dare the policeman—miscalled officer of justice—put his foot 
across the door to drag it out again to the street ? Nobody means to defend 
our defects; does any man attempt to defend them ? Were not these noble 
ladies and excellent women, titled and untitled, among the very first to 
seek to redress them ?” 

I wish I could give you the strong, broad Scotch accent. 

The national penny offering, consisting of a thousand golden sovereigns 
on a magnificent silver salver, stood conspicuously in view of the audience. 
It has been an unsolicited offering, given in the smallest sums, often from 
the extreme poverty of the giver. The committee who collected it in 
Edinburgh and Glasgow bore witness to the willingness with which the very 
poorest contributed the offering of their sympathy. In one cottage they 
found a blind woman, and said, “Here, at least, is one who will feel no 
interest, as she cannot have read the book.” 

“Indeed,” said the old lady, “if I cannot read, my son has read it to 
me, and I’ve got my penny saved to give.” 

It is to my mind extremely touching to see how the pool’, in their poverty, 
can be moved to a generosity surpassing that of the rich. Nor do I mourn 
that they took it from their slender store, because I know that a penny 
given from a kindly impulse is a greater comfort and blessing to the poorest 
giver than even a penny received. 

As in the case of the other meeting, we came out long before the speeches 
were ended. Well, of coui'se, I did not sleep any all night. The next 
day I felt quite miserable. Mrs. W. went with Mr.' S. and myself for a 
quiet drive in her carriage. 

It was a beautiful, sunny day that we drove out to Craigmillar Castle, 
formerly one of the roya 1 residences. It was here that Mary retreated 
after the murder of Iiizzio, and where, the chronicler says, she was often 
heard in those days wishing that she were in her grave. It seems so 
strange to see it standing there all alone, in the midst of grassy fields, so 
silent, and cold, and solitary. I got out of the carriage and walked about 
it. The short, green grass was gemmed with daisies, and sheep were 
peacefully feeding and resting, where was once all the life and bustle of a 
court. 

We had no one to open the inside of the castle for us, where there are 
still some tolerably preserved rooms, but we strolled listlessly about, 
looking through the old arches, and peeping through slits and loopholes 
into the interior. 

The last verse of Queen Mary’s lamentation seemed to be sighing iu 
the air;— 

0, soon for me shall simmer’s suns 
Nae mair light up the morn; 

N ae mair for me the autumn wind 
Wave o’er the yellow corn. 

But in the narrow house of death 
Let winter round me rave, 

And the next tlowers that deck the spring 
Bloom on my peaceful grave.” 

Only yesterday, it seemed, since that poor heart was yearning and strug- 




SALISBURY CRAGS. 


43 

glmg, caught in the toils of this sorrowful life. How many times she 
looked on this landscape through sad eyes ! I suppose just such little 
daisies grew here in the grass then, and perhaps she stooped and picked 
them, wishing, just as I do, that the pink did not grow on the under side 
of them where it does not show. Do you know that this little daisy is the 
gowan of Scotch poetry ? So I was told by a “charming young Jessie” 
in Glasgow, one day when I was riding out there. 

The view from Craigmillar is beautiful—Auld Reekie, Arthur’s Seat, 
Salisbury Crags, andfar down the Frith of Forth, where we can just dimly see 
the Bass Rock, celebrated as a prison, where the Covenanters were immured. 

It was this fortress that Habakkulc Mucklewratli speaks of in his 
ravings, when he says, “ Am not I Habakkuk Mucklewratli, whose name 
is changed to Magor-Missabib, because I am made a terror unto myself, 
and unto all that are around me ? I heard it: when did I hear it ? Was it 
not in the tower of the Bass, that overhangeth the wide, wild sea ? and 
it howled in the winds, and it roared in tlie billows, and it screamed, and 
it whistled, and it clanged, with the screams, and the clang, and the 
whistle of the sea birds, as they floated, and flew, and dropped, and dived, 
on the bosom of the waters.” 

These Salisbury Crags, which overlook Edinburgh, have a very peculiar 
outline ; they resemble an immense elephant crouching down. We passed 
Uuskats Cairn, where Jeanie Deans met Robertson ; and saw Liberton, 
where Reuben Butler was a schoolmaster. Nobody doubts, I hope, the 
historical accuracy of these points. 

Thursday, 21st. We took cars for Aberdeen. The appropriation of 
old historical names to railroad stations often reminds me of Hood’s whim¬ 
sical lines on a possible railroad in the Holy Land. Think of having 
Bannockburn shouted by the station master, as the train runs whistling up 
to a small station house. Nothing to be seen there but broad, silent 
meadows, through which the burn wimples its way. Here was the very 
Marathon of Scotland. I suppose we know more about it from the “ Scots 
whaha’ wi’ Wallace bled,” than we do from history ; yet the real scene, 
as narrated by the historian, has a moral grandeur in it. 

The chronicler tells us, that when on this occasion the Scots formed 
their line of battle, and a venerable abbot passed along, holding up the 
cross before them, the whole army fell upon their knees. 

“These Scots will not fight,” said Edward, who was reconnoitring at a 
distance. “ See ! they are all on their knees now to beg for mercy.” 

“ They kneel,” said a lord who stood by, “but it is to God alone; trust 
me, those men will win or die.” 

The bold lyric of Burns is but an inspired kind of version of the real 
address which Bruce is said to have made to his followers; and whoever 
reads it will see that its power lies not in appeal to brute force, but to the 
highest elements of our nature, the love of justice, the sense of honour, 
and to disinterestedness, self-sacrifice, courage unto death. 

These things will live and form high and imperishable elements of our 
nature, when mankind have learned to develop them in other spheres than 
that of physical force. Burns’s lyric, therefore, has in it an element which 
may rouse the heart to noble endurance and devotion, even when the world 
shall learn war no more. 

We passed through the town of Stirling, whose castle, magnificently 





44 SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN IANDS. 

seated on a rocky throne, looks right worthy to have been the seat of 
Scotland's court, as it was for many years. It brought to our minds all the 
last scenes of the Lady of the Lake, which are laid here with a minuteness 
of local description and allusion characteristic of Scott. 

According to our guide book, one might find there the visible counter¬ 
part of every thing which he has woven into his beautiful fiction “the 
Lady’s Rock, which rang to the applause of the multitude;” “the Francis¬ 
can steeple, which pealed the merry festival;” “the sad and fatal mound,” 
apostrophized by Douglas,— 

“ That oft has heard the death-axe sound 
As on the noblest of the land, 

Fell the stern headsman’s bloody hand;”— 

the room in the castle, where “a Douglas by his sovereign bledand not 
far off the ruins of Cambuskennetk Abbey. One could not but think of the 
old days Scott has described. 

“ The castle gates were open flung, 

The quivering drawbridge rocked and rung, 

And echoed loud the flinty street 
Beneath the coursers’ clattering feet. 

As slowly down the steep descent, 

Fair Scotland’s king and nobles went. 

While all along the crowded way 
Was jubilee and loud huzza.” 

The palace has been long deserted as a palace; but it is one of the four 
fortresses, which, by the articles of union between Scotland and England, 
are always to be kept in repair. 

We passed by the town of Perth, the scene of the “Fair Maid’s” adven¬ 
tures. We had received an invitation to visit it, but for want of time 
were obliged to defer it till our return to Scotland. 

Somewhere along here Mr. S. was quite excited by our proximity to 
Scone, the old crowning-place of the Scottish kings; however, the old 
castle is entirely demolished, and superseded by a modern mansion, the 
seat of the Earl of Mansfield. 

Still farther on, surrounded by dark and solemn woods, stands Glamis 
Castle, the scene of the tragedy in Macbeth. We could see but a glimpse 
of it from the road, but the very sound of the name was enough to stimu¬ 
late our imagination. It is still an inhabited dwelling, though much to the 
regret of antiquarians and lovers of the picturesque, the characteristic out¬ 
works and defences of the feudal ages, which surrounded it, have been 
levelled, and velvet lawns and gravel walks carried to the very door. 
Scott, who passed a night there in 1793, while it was yet in its pristine 
condition, comments on the change mournfully, as undoubtedly a true 
lover of the past would. Albeit the grass plats and the gravel walks, to 
the eye of sense, are undoubtedly much more agreeable and convenient. 
Scott says in his Demonology, that he never came anywhere near to being 
overcome with a superstitious feeling, except twice in his life, and one was 
on the night when he slept in Glamis Castle. The poetical and the practical 
elements in Scott’s mind ran together, side by side, without mixing, as 
evidently as the waters of the Alleghany and Monongahela at Pittsburg. 
Scarcely ever a man had so much relish for the supernatural, and so little 
faith in it. One must confess, however, that the most sceptical might 
have been overcome at Glamis Castle, for its appearance, by all accounts, 
is weird and strange, and ghostly enough to start the dullest imagination. 








GLAMIS CASTLE. 


45 


On this occasion Scott says, “ After a very hospitable reception from the 
iate Peter Proctor, seneschal of the castle, I was conducted to my apart¬ 
ment in a distant part of the building. I must own, that when I heard 
door after door shut, after my conductor had retired, I began to consider 
jnysell as too far from the living, and somewhat too near the dead. We 
tad passed through what is called ‘the King’s Room,’ a vaulted apart¬ 
ment, garnished with stags’ antlers and similar trophies of the chase, and 
laid by tradition to be the spot of Malcolm’s murder, and I had an idea of 
the vicinity of the castle chapel. In spite of the truth of history, the whole 
might scene in Macbeth’s castle rushed at once upon my mind, and struck 
pay imagination more forcibly than even when I have seen its terrors repre¬ 
sented by the late John Kemble and his inimitable sister. In a word, I 
experienced sensations which, though not remarkable either for timidity or 
superstition, did not fail to affect me to the point of being disagreeable, 
while they were mingled, at the same time, with a strange and indescrib¬ 
able kind of pleasure.” 

Externally, the building is quaint and singular enough ; tall and gaunt, 
crested with innumerable little pepper-box turrets and conical towers, like 
an old French chateau. 

Besides the tragedy of Macbeth, another story of still more melancholy 
interest is connected with it, which a pen like that of Hawthorne might 
work up with gloomy power. 

In 1537 the young and beautiful Lady Glamis, of this place, was actually 
tried and executed for witchcraft. Only think, now ! what capabilities in 
this old castle, with its gloomy pine shades, quaint architecture, and weird 
associations, with this bit of historic verity to start upon. 

Walter Scott says there is in the castle a secret chamber; the entrance to 
which, by the law of the family, can be known only to three persons at 
once—the lord of the castle, his heir apparent, and any third person whom 
they might choose to take into their confidence. See, now, the mate¬ 
rials which the past gives to the novelist or poet in these old countries. 
These ancient castles are standing romances, made to the author’s hands. 
The castle started a talk upon Shakspeare, and how much of the tragedy 
he made up, and how much he found ready to his hand in tradition and 
history. It seems the story is all told in Holingshed’s Chronicles ; but his 
fertile mind has added some of the most thrilling touches, such as the 
sleep-walking of Lady Macbeth. It always seemed to me that this tragedy 
had more of the melancholy majesty and power of the Greek than any¬ 
thing modern. The striking difference is, that while fate was the radical 
element of those, free will is not less distinctly the basis of this. Strangely 
enough, while it commences with a supernatural oracle, there is not a trace 
of fatalism in it, but through all, a clear, distinct recognition of moral 
responsibility, of the power to resist evil, and the guilt of yielding to it. 
The theology of Shakspeare is as remarkable as his poetry. A strong and 
•lear sense of man’s moi’al responsibility and free agency, and of certain 
future retribution, runs through all his plays. 

I enjoyed this ride to Aberdeen more than anything we had seen yet, the 
country is so wild and singular. In the afternoon we came in sight of the 
German Ocean. The free, bracing air from the sea, and the thought that 
it actually was the German Ocean, and that over the other side was Norway,, 
(vithin a day’s sail of us, gave it a strange, romantic charm. 

“Suppose we just run over to Norway,” said one of us; and then came 





SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


43 

the idea, what we should do if we got over there, seeing none of ns under.* 

stood Norse. ' 

The whole coast along here is wild and rock-hound; occasionally long 
points jut into the sea; the blue waves sparkle and dash against them in 
little jets of foam, and the sea birds dive and scream around them. 

On one of these points, near the town of Stonehaven, are still seen the 
ruins of Dunottar Castle, bare and desolate, surrounded on all sides by the 
restless, moaning waves; a place justly held accursed as the scene of cruel* 
ties to the Covenanters, so appalling and brutal as to make the blood boil 
in the recital, even in this late day. 

During the reigns of Charles and James, sovereigns whom Macaulay justlj 
designates as Belial and Moloch, this castle was the state prison for confin¬ 
ing this noble people. In the reign of James, one hundred and sixty-seven 
prisoners, men, women, and children, for refusing the oath of supremacy, 
were arrested at their firesides : herded together like cattle; driven at the 
point of the bayonet, amid the gibes, jeers, and scoffs of soldiers, up to this 
dreary place, and thrust promiscuously into a dark vault in this castle; 
almost smothered in filth and mire; a prey to pestilent disease, and tc 
every malignity which brutality could inflict, they died here unpitied. A 
few, escaping down the rocks, were recaptured, and subjected to shocking 
tortures. 

A moss-grown gravestone, in the parish churchyard of Dunottar, shows 
the last resting-place of these sufferers. 

Walter Scott, who visited this place, says, “The peasantry continue tc 
attach to the tombs of these victims an honour which they do not render tc 
more splendid mausoleums; and when they point them out to their sons, 
and narrate the fate of the sufferers, usually conclude by exhorting them 
to be ready, should the times call for it, to resist to the death in the cause 
of civil and religious liberty, like their brave forefathers.” 

It is also related by Gilfillan, that a minister from this vicinity, having 
once lost his way in travelling through a distant part of Scotland, vainlj 
solicited the services of a guide for some time, all being engaged in peat¬ 
cutting : at last one of the farmers, some of whose ancestors had beer 
included among the sufferers, discovering that he came from this vicinity, 
had seen the gravestones, and could repeat the inscriptions, was willing tc 
give up half a day’s work to guide him on his way. 

It is well that such spots should be venerated as sacred shrines among 
the descendants of the Covenanters, to whom Scotland owes what she is, 
and all she may become. 

It was here that Scott first became acquainted with Robert Paterson, the 
original of Old Mortality. 

Leaving Stonehaven, we passed, on a rising ground a little to our left, 
the house of the celebrated Barclay of Ury. It remains very much in its 
ancient condition, surrounded by a low stone wall, like the old fortified 
houses of Scotland. 

Barclay of Ury was an old and distinguished soldier, who had foughl 
under Grustavus Adolphus in Germany, and one of the earliest converts tc 
the principles of the Friends in Scotland. As a Quaker, he became an object j 
of hatred and abuse at the hands of the magistracy and populace; but • 
he endured all these insults and injuries with the greatest patience and 
nobleness of soul. 

“I find more satisfaction,” he said, “as well as honour, in being thus 




TIIE DEE. 


47 

insulted for my religious principles, than when, a few years ago, it was 
usual for the magistrates, as I passed‘the city of Aberdeen, to meet me on 
the road and conduct me to public entertainment in their hall, and then 
escort me out again, to gain my favour.” 

Whittier has celebrated this incident in his beautiful ballad, called 
* 1 Barclay of Ury.” The son of this Barclay was the author of that Apology 
which bears his name, and is still a standard work among the Friends. 
The estate is still possessed by his descendants. 

A little farther along towards Aberdeen, Mr. S. seemed to amuse himself 
very much with the idea that we were coming near to Dugald Dalgetty’s 
estate of Drumthwacket, an historical remembrance which I take to be 
somewhat apocryphal. 

It was towards the close of the afternoon that we found ourselves crossing 
the Dee, in view of Aberdeen. My spirits were wonderfully elated: the 
! grand sea scenery and fine bracing air; the noble, distant view of the city, 
i rising, with its harbour and shipping, all filled me with delight. Besides 
which the Dee had been enchanted for me from my childhood, by a wild old 
ballad which I used to hear sung to a Scottish tune, equally wild and 
pathetic. I repeated it to C-, and will now to you. 

“ The moon had climbed the highest hill 
That rises o’er the banks of Dee, 

And from her farthest summit poured 
Her silver light o’er tower and tree,— 

* , 'VVhen Mary laid her down to sleep. 

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea. 

And soft and low a voice she heard. 

Saying, * Mary, weep no more for me.* 

<c She from her pillow gently raised 

Her head, to see who there might be; 

She saw young Sandy shivering stand, 

With pallid cheek and hollow ee. 

*** O Mary dear, cold is my clay; 

It lies beneath the stormy sea ; 

The storm is past, and I’m at rest; 

So, Mary, weep nc more for me.’ 

*‘Loud crew the cock ; the vision fled : 

No more young Sandy could she see; 

But soft a parting whisper said, 

‘ Sweet Mary, weep no more for me.’ ” 

I never saw tliese lines in print anywhere; I never knew who wrote 
them ; I had only heard them sung at the fireside when a child, to a tune 
as dreamy and sweet as themselves; but they rose upon me like an en¬ 
chantment as I crossed the Dee, in view of that very German Ocean, famed 
for its storms and shipwrecks. 

In this propitious state, disposed to be pleased with everything, our 
hearts responded warmly to the greetings of the many friends who were 
waiting for us at the station house. 

The lord provost received us into his carriage, and as we drove along, 
pointed out to us the various objects of interest in the beautiful town. 
Among other things, a fine old bridge across the Dee attracted our par¬ 
ticular attention. 

We were conducted to the house of Mr. Cruikshank, a Friend, and 
found waiting for us there the thoughtful hospitality which we had ever 
experienced in all our stopping-places, A snug little quiet supper was laid 







13 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREION LANDS. 


oat upon the table, of which we partook in haste, as we were informed i 
that the assembly at the hall were waiting to receive us. 

There arrived, we found the hall crowded, and with difficulty made our 
way to the platform. Whether owing to the stimulating effect of the 
air from the ocean, or to the comparatively social aspect of the scene, or 
perhaps to both, certain it is, that we enjoyed the meeting with great 
zest. I was surrounded on the stage with bloomingyoung ladies, one of whom 
put into my hands a beautiful bouquet, some flowers of which I have now 
dried in my album. The refreshment tables were adorned with some 
exquisite wax flowers, the work, as I was afterwards told, of a young lady 
in the place. One of the designs especially interested me. It was a 
group of water lilies resting on a mirror, which gave them the appearance 
of growing in the water. 

We had some very animated speaking, in which the speakers contrived 
to blend enthusiastic admiration and love for America with detestation 
of slavery. 

All the afternoon the beautiful coast had reminded me of the State of 
Maine, and the genius of the meeting confirmed the association. They 
seemed to me to be a plain, genial, strong, warm-hearted people, like 
those of Maine. 

One of the speakers concluded his address by saying that John Bull and 
Brother Jonathan, with Paddy and Sandy Scott, should they clasp hands 
together, might stand against the world; which sentiment was responded 
to with thunders of applause. 

It is because America, like Scotland, has stood for right against oppres¬ 
sion, that the Scotch love and sympathize with her. For this reason do 
they feel it as something taken from the strength of a common cause, when 
America sides with injustice and oppression. The children of the Cove¬ 
nant and the children of the Puritans are of one blood. 

They presented an offering in a beautiful embroidered purse, and after 
much shaking of hands we went home, and sat down to the supper table, 
for a little more chat, before going to bed. The next morning,—as we 
had only till noon to stay in Aberdeen,—our friends, the lord provost, and 
Mr. Leslie, the architect, came immediately after breakfast to show us the 
place. 

The town of Aberdeen is a very fine one, and owes much of its beauty to 
the light-coloured granite of which most of the houses are built. It has 
broad, clean, beautiful streets, and many very curious and interesting 
public buildings. The town exhibits that union of the hoary past with 
the bustling present which is characteristic of the old world. 

It has two parts, the old and the new, as unlike as L’Allegro and Pen- 
seroso—the new, clean and modern; the old, mossy and dreamy. The 
old town is called Aifon, and has venerable houses, standing, many of 
them, in ancient gardens. And here rises the peculiar, old, gray cathedral. 
These Scotch cathedrals have a sort of stubbed appearance, and look like 
the expression in stone of defiant, invincible resolution. This is of 
primitive granite, in the same heavy, massive style as the cathedral of 
Glasgow, but having strong individualities of its own. 

Whoever located the ecclesiastical buildings of England and Scotland 
certainly had an exquisite perception of natural scenery; for one notices 
that they are almost invariably placed on just that point of the landscape, 





ABERDEEN’. 


49 


where tlie poet or tlie artist would say they should he. These cathedrals, 
though all having a general similarity of design, seem, each one, to have its 
own personality, as much as a human being. Looking at nineteen of them 
is no compensation to you for omitting the twentieth; there will certainly 
be something new and peculiar in that. 

This Aberdeen Cathedral, or Cathedral of St. Machar, is situated on the 
banks of the river Don; one of those beautiful amber-brown rivers that 
colour the stones and pebbles at the bottom with a yellow light, such as 
one sees in ancient pictures. Old trees wave and rustle around, and the 
building itself, though a part of it has fallen into ruins, has, in many parts, 
a wonderful clearness and sharpness of outline. I cannot describe these 
things to you; architectural terms convey no picture to the mind. I can 
only tell you of the character and impression it bears—a character of strong, 
unflinching endurance, appropriately reminding one of the Scotch people, 
whom Walter Scott compares to the native sycamore of their hills, “which 
scorns to be biassed in its mode of growth, even by the influence of the 
prevailing wind, but shooting its branches with equal boldness in every 
direction, shows no weather side to the storm, and may be broken, but can 
never be bended. 

One reason for the sharpness and distinctness of the architectural pre¬ 
servation of this cathedral is probably that closeness of texture for which 
Aberdeen granite is remarkable. It bears marks of the hand of violence 
in many parts. The images of saints and bishops, which lie on their backs 
with clasped hands, seem to have been wofully maltreated and despoiled, 
in the fervour of those days, when people fondly thought that breaking 
down carved work was getting rid of superstition. These granite saints 
and bishops, with their mutilated fingers and broken noses, seem to be 
bearing a silent, melancholy witness against that disposition in human 
nature, which, instead of making clean the cup and platter, breaks them 
altogether. 

The roof of the cathedral is a splendid specimen of carving in black oak, 
wrought in panels, with leaves and inscriptions in ancient text. The 
church could once boast in other parts (so says an architectural work) a 
profusion of carved woodwork of the same character, which must have 
greatly relieved the massive plainness of the interior. 

• In 1649, the parish minister attacked the “High Altar,” a piece of the 
most splendid workmanship of anything of the kind in Europe, and which 
had to that time remained inviolate ; perhaps from the insensible influence 
of its beauty. It is said that the carpenter employed for the purpose was 
so struck with the noble workmanship, that he refused to touch it till the 
minister took the hatchet from his hand, and gave the first blow. 

These men did not consider that “the leprosy lies deep within,” and 
that when human nature is denied beautiful idols, it will go after ugly ones. 
There has been just as unspiritual a resting in coarse, bare, and disagreeable 
adjuncts of religion, as in beautiful and agreeable ones; men have wor¬ 
shipped Juggernaut as pertinaciously as they have Venus or the Graces; so 
that the good divine might better have aimed a sermon at the heart than 
an axe at the altar. 

We lingered a long time around here, and could scarcely tear ourselves 
away. We paced up and down under the old trees, looking off on the 
waters of the Don, listening to the waving branches, and falling into a 

E 










50 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 




dreamy state of mind, thought what if it were six hundred years ago ! and 
we were pious, simple hearted old abbots ! What a fine place that would 
be to walk up and down at eventide or on a Sabbath morning, reciting the j 
penitential psalms, or reading St. Augustine ! 

I cannot get over the feeling, that the souls of the dead do somehow 
connect themselves with the places of their former habitation, and that the 
hush and thrill of spirit, which we feel in them, may be owing to the over- i 
shadowing presence of the invisible. St. Paul says, “We are compassed 
about with a great cloud of witnesses.” How can they be witnesses, if 
they cannot see and be cognizant ? 

We left the place by a winding walk, to go to the famous bridge of 
Balgounie, another dream-land affair, not far from here. It is a single 
gray stone arch, apparently cut from solid rock, that spans the brown 
rippling waters, where wild, overhanging banks, shadowy trees, and dip- | 
ping wild flowers, all conspire to make a romantic picture. This bridge, 
with the river and scenery, were poetic items that went, with other 
things, to form the sensitive mind of Byron, who lived here in lr s earlier 
days. He has some lines about it:— 

“As ‘aulcl lang syne’ brings Scotland, one and all, 

Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills and clear streams, 

The Dee, the Don, Balgounie’s brig’s black wall, 

All my boy-feelings, all my gentler dreams. 

Of what I then dreamt clothed in their own pall. 

Like Banquo’s offspring,—floating'past me seems 
Ivly childhood, in this childishness of mind: 

I care not—’tis a glimpse of ‘ auld lang syne.’ ” 

This old bridge has a prophecy connected with it, which was repeated to 
us, and you shall have it literatim :— 

“ Brig of Balgounie. black’s your wa’, 

Wi’ a wife’s ae son, and a mare’s ae foal, , 

Doon ye shall fa’!” 

The bridge was built in the time of Robert Brace, by one Bisnop Cheyne, 
of whom all that I know is, that lie evidently had a good eye for the pic¬ 
turesque. 

After this we went to visit King’s College. The tower of it is sur¬ 
mounted by a massive stone crown, which forms a very singular feature in 
every view of Aberdeen, and is said to be a perfectly unique specimen of 
architecture. This King’s College is very old, being founded also by a 
bishop, as far hack as the fifteenth century. It has an exquisitely carved 
roof, and carved oaken seats. We went through the library, the hall, and 
the museum. Certainly, the old, dark architecture of these universities 
must tend to form a different style of mind from our plain matter-of-fact 
college buildings. 

Here in Aberdeen is the veritable Marischal College, so often quoted by 
Dugald Dalgetty. We bad not time to go and see it, but I can assure you, 
on the authority of the guide-book, that it is a magnificent specimen of 
architecture. 

After this, that we might not neglect the present in our zeal for the past, 
we went to the marble yards, where they work the Aberdeen granite. This 
granite, of which we have many specimens in America, is of two kinds, one 
being gray, the other of a reddish hue. It seems to differ from other gra¬ 
nite in the fineness and closeness of its grain, which enable it to receive the 


ABERDEEN. 


51 

most brilliant conceivable polish. I saw some superb columns of the red 
species, which were preparing to go over the Baltic to Riga, for an Ex¬ 
change ; and a sepulchral monument, which was going to New York. All 
was busy here, sawing, chipping, polishing ; as different a scene from the 
gray old cathedral as could be imagined. The granite finds its way, I 
suppose, to countries which the old, unsophisticated abbots never 
dreamed of. 

One of the friends who had accompanied us during the morning tour was 
the celebrated architect, Mr. Leslie, whose conversation gave us all much 
enjoyment. He and Mrs. Leslie gave me a most invaluable parting pre¬ 
sent, to wit, four volumes of engravings, representing the “Baronial and 
Ecclesiastical Antiquities of Scotland,” illustrated by Billings. I cannot 
tell you what a mine of pleasure it has been to me. It is a proof edition, 
and the engravings are so vivid, and the drawing so fine, that it is nearly 
as good as reality. It might almost save one the trouble of a pilgrimage. 
I consider the book a kind of national poem; for architecture is, in its na¬ 
ture, poetry; especially in these old countries, where it weaves into itself a 
nation’s history, and gives literally the image and body of the times. 


LETTER, VII. 

LETTER PROS! A SCOTCH BACHELOR.—REFORMATORY SCHOOLS OP ABERDEEN.— 
DUNDEE.—DS. DICK.—THE QUEEN IN' SCOTLAND. 

Beak Cousin:— 

While here in Aberdeen I received a very odd letter, so peculiar and curious 
that I will give you the benefit of it. The author appears to be, in his 
way, a kind of Christopher in his cave, or Timon of Athens. I omit some 
parts, which are more expressive than agreeable. It is dated 

Stonehaven, N. B., Kincardineshire, 0 
57° N, W. Tliis 21st April, 1853. J 

“ To Mbs. Harriet B. Stowe : — 

‘ ‘ My dear Madam: By tbe time that this gets your length, the fonk 
o’Aberdeen will be sbewm ye off as a rare animal, just arrived frae 
America; the wife that writ Uncle Tom’s Cabin. 

“ I wad like to see ye mysel, but I canna win for wan£ o’ siller, and as I 
thought ye might be writin a buke about the Scotch when 'ye get liame, I 
hae just sent ye this bit auld key to Sawney’s Cabin. 

“ Well, then, dinna forget to speer at the Aberdeenians if it be true 
they ance kidnappet little laddies, and selt them for slaves; that they dang 
down the Quaker’s kirkyard dyke, and houket up dead Quakers out o’ their 
graves; that the young boys at the college printed a buke, and maist naebody 
wad buy it, and they cam out to Ury, near Stonehaven, and took twelve 
stots frae Davie Barclay to pay the printer. '' 

“ Dinna forget to speer at-, if it was true that he flogget three 

laddies in the beginning o’ last year, for the three following crimes: first, 
for the crime of being born of puir, ignorant parents; second, for the crime 
of being left in ignorance; and, third, for the crime of having nothing 
to eat. 

“ Dinna be telling when ye gang hame that ye rode on the Aberdeen 
railway, made by a hundred men, who were all in the Stonehaven prison 
for drunkenness; nor above five could sign their names. 

e 2 







52 


SUNNY memories of foreign lands. 


“ If the Scotch kill ye with ower feeding and making speeches, he sure 
to send this harne to tell your fouk, that it was Queen Elizabeth who made 
the first European law to buy and sell human beings' like brute beasts. 
She was England’s glory as a Protestant, end Scotland’s shame as the 
murderer of their bonnie Mary. The aukl hag skulked away like a coward 
in the hour of death. Mary, on the other hand, with calmness and 
dignity, repeated a Latin prayer to the Great Spirit and Author of her 
being, and calmly resigned herself into the hands of her murderers. 

“ In the capital of her ancient kingdom, when ye are in our country, 
there are eight hundred women sent to prison every year for the first 
time. Of fifteen thousand prisoners examined in Scotland in the year 
1845, eight thousand could not write at all, and three thousand could not 
read. 

“At present there are about twenty thousand prisoners in Scotland. 
In Stonehaven they are fed at about seventeen pounds each, annually. 
The honest poor, outside the prison upon the parish roll, are fed at the 
rate of five farthings a day, or two pounds a year. The employment of 
the prisoners is grinding the wind, we ca’ it; turning the crank, in plain 
English. The latest improvement is the streekin board; it’s a whig 
improvement o’ Lord Jonnie Russell’s. 

“ I ken brawly ye are a curious wife, and would like to ken a’ about 
the Scotch bodies. Weel, they are a gay, ignorant, proud, drunken pack ; 
they manage to pay ilka year for whuskey one million three hundred and 
forty-eight thousand pounds. 

‘ ‘ Rut then, their piety—their piety ; weel, let’s luke at it: king it up 
by the nape o’ the neck, and turn it round atween our finger and thumb 
on all sides. 

‘ ‘ Is there one school in all Scotland where the helpless, homeless poor 
are fed and clothed at the public expense 1 None. 

“Is there a hame in all Scotland for the cleanly but sick servant maid 
to go till, until health be restored ? Alas ! there is none. 

“ Is there a school in all Scotland for training ladies in the higher 
branches of learning ? None. What, then, is there for the women of 
Scotland ? 

* * * * * 

“ A weel, be sure and try a cupful of Scottish Kail Brose. See and get 
a sup Scotch lang mill'. 

‘ ‘ Hand this bit line yout to the Rev. Mr. -. Tell him to skore out 

fats nae true. 

7 ‘ God bless you, and set you safe hame, is the prayer of the old Scotch 
Bachelor.” 

I think you will agree with me, that the old testifying spirit does not 
seem to have died out in Scotland, and that the backslidings and abomina¬ 
tions of the land do not want for able exponents. 

As the indictment runs back to the time of Charles II., to tire persecu¬ 
tions of the Quakers in the days of Barclay of Ury, and brings up against 
the most modern offences, one cannot but feel that there are the most 
savoury indications in it of Scotch thoroughness. 

Some of the questions which lie wishes to have me “ speer” at Aberdeen 
I fear, alas ! would bring but an indifferent answer even in Boston, which 








REFORMATORY SCHOOLS OF ABERDEEN. 53 

gives a high school only to boys, and allows none to girls. On one point, it 
seems to me, my friend might speer himself to advantage, and that is the 
very commendable effoi’ts which are being made now in Edinburgh and 
Aberdeen both, in the way of educating the children of the poor. 

As this is one of the subjects which are particularly on my mind, and as 
all information which we can get upon this subject is peculiarly valuable to 
us in view of commencing efforts in America, I will abridge for you an 
account of the Industrial Schools of Aberdeen, published by the Society for 
Improving the Condition of the Labouring Classes, in their paper called the 
“ Labourer’s Friend.” 

In June, 1841, it was ascertained that in Aberdeen there were two 
hundred and eighty children, under fourteen years of age, who maintained 
themselves professedly by begging, but partly by theft. The first effort to 
better the moral condition of these children brought with it the discovery 
which our philanthropists made in New York, that in order to do good to 
a starving child, we must begin by feeding him ; that we must gain his 
confidence by showing him a benevolence which he can understand, and 
thus proceed gradually to the reformation of his spiritual nature. 

In 1841, therefore, some benevolent individuals in Aberdeen hired 
rooms and a teacher, and gave out notice among these poor children that 
they could there be supplied with food, work, and instruction. The general 
arrangement of the day was four hours of lessons, five hours of work, and 
three substantial meals. These meals were employed as the incitements to 
the lessons and the work, since it was made an indispensable condition to 
each meal that the child should have been present at the work or lessons 
which preceded it. This arrangement worked admirably; so that they 
. reported that the attendance was more regular than at ordinary schools. 

The whole produce of the work of the children goes towards defraying 
the expense of the establishment, thus effecting several important pur¬ 
poses,—reducing the expense of the school, and teaching the children prac¬ 
tically the value of their industry, in procuring for them food and instruction, 
and fostering in them, from the first, a sound principle of self-dependence; 
inasmuch as they know, from the moment of their entering school, that 
they give, or pay, in return for their food and education, all the work they 
are capable of performing. 

The institution did not profess to clothe the children; but by the 
kindness of benevolent persons who take an interest in the school, there 
is generally a stock of old clothes on hand, from which the most destitute 
are supplied. 

The following is the daily routine of the school: The scholars assemble 
every morning at seven in summer, and eight in winter. The school is 
opened by reading the Scriptures, praise, and prayer, and religious instruc¬ 
tion suited to their years, after which there is a lesson in geography, or the 
more ordinary facts of natural history, taught by means of maps and 
prints distributed along the walls of the school room; two days in the 
week they have a singing lesson ; at nine they breakfast on porridge and 
milk, and have half an hour of play; at ten they assemble in school, and are 
employed at work till two. At two o’clock they dine; usually on broth, with 
coarse wheaten bread, but occasionally on potatoes and ox-head soup, &e. 
The diet is very plain, but nutritious and abundant, and appears to suit 
the tastes of the pupils completely. It is a pleasing sight to see them as- 






54 SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 

stembled, with, their youthful appetites sharpened by four hours’ work, join¬ 
ing, at least with outward decorum, in asking God’s blessing on the food he 
has provided for them, and most promptly availing themselves of the signal 
given to commence their dinner. 

From dinner till three, the time is spent in exercise or recreation, occa¬ 
sionally working in the garden; from three to four, they work either in the 
garden or in the work room; from four till seven, they are instructed in 
reading, writing, and arithmetic. At seven they have supper of porridge 
and milk; and, after short religious exercises, are dismissed to their homes 
at eight. 

On Saturday, they do not return to school after dinner ; and, occasion¬ 
ally, as a reward of good behaviour, they accompany the teacher in a walk 
to the country or the sea coast. 

On Sunday, they assemble at half-past eight for devotion; breakfast at 
nine ; attend worship in the school room; after which they dine, and 
return home, so as, if possible, to go with their parents to church in 
the afternoon. 

At five they again meet, and have Sabbath school instruction in Eible 
and catechism; at seven, supper; and after evening worship are dismissed. 

From this detail it will be seen that these schools differ from common 
day schools. In day schools neither food nor employment is provided— 
teaching only is proposed with a very little moral training. 

The principle on which the industrial school proceeds, of giving employ¬ 
ment along with instruction—especially as that employment is designed at 
the same time, if possible, to teach a trade which may be afterwards avail¬ 
able— appears of the highest value. It is a practical discipline—a moral 
training, the importance of which cannot be over-estimated. 

In a common school, too, there can be but little moral training, however 
efficiently the school may be conducted, just because there is little opportu¬ 
nity given for the development and display of individual character. The 
whole management of a school requires that the pupils be as speedily as pos¬ 
sible brought to a uniform outward conduct, and thus an appearance of 
good behaviour and propriety is produced within the school room, which is 
too often cast aside and forgotten the moment the pupils pass the threshold. 

The remark was once made by an experienced teacher, that for the pur¬ 
poses of moral training he valued more the time he spent with his pupils at 
their games, than that which was spent in the school room. 

The pecuniary value of the work done in these schools is not so great as 
was at first hoped, from the difficulty of procuring employment such as 
children so neglected could perform to advantage. The real value of the 
thing, however, they consider lies in the habits of industry and the sense of 
independence thus imparted. 

At the outset the managers of the school regretted extremely their want 
of ability to furnish lodgings to the children. It was thought and said that 
the homes, to which the majority of them were obliged to return after 
school hours, would deprave faster than any instruction could reform. 
Fortunately it was impossible, at the time, to provide lodging for the chil¬ 
dren, and thus an experience was wrought out most valuable to all future 
labourers in this field. 

The managers report that after six years’ trial, the instances where evil 
results from the children returning home,, are very rare , whim there have 
been most cheering instances of substantial good being carried by the child, 


REFORMATORY SCHOOLS OF ABERDEEN. 55 

from the school, through the whole family. There are few parents, espe¬ 
cially mothers, so abandoned as not to be touched by kindness shown to 
their offspring. It is the direct road to the mother’s heart. Show kind¬ 
ness to her child, and she is prepared at once to second your efforts on its 
behalf. She must be debased, indeed, who will not listen to her child 
repeating its text from the Bible, or singing a verse of its infant hymn; 
and by this means the first seeds of a new life may be, and have been, 
planted in the parent’s heart. 

In cases where parents are so utterly depraved as to make it entirely 
hopeless to reform the child at home, they have found it the best course to 
board them, two or three together, in respectable families ; the influences 
of the family state being held to be essential. 

The success which attended the boys’ school of industry soon led to the 
establishment of one for girls* conducted on the same principles ; and it is 
stated that the change wrought among poor, outcast girls, by these means, 
was even more striking and gratifying than among the boys. 

After these schools had been some time in operation, it was discovered 
that there were still multitudes of depraved children who could not or did 
not avail themselves of these privileges. It was determined by the autho¬ 
rities of the city of Aberdeen, in conformity with the Scripture injunction, 
to go out into the highways and hedges and compel them to come in. 
Under the authority of the police act they proposed to lay hold of the whole 
of the juvenile vagrants, and pi*ovide them with food and instruction. 

Instructions were given to the police, on the 19th of May, 1845, to 
convey every child found begging to the soup kitchen; and, in the course 
of the day, seventy-five were collected, of whom four only could read. The 
scene which ensued is indescribable. Confusion and uproar, quarrelling 
and fighting, language of the most hateful description, and the most deter¬ 
mined rebellion against everything like order and regularity, gave the 
gentlemen engaged in the undertaking of taming them the hardest day’s 
work they had ever encountered. Still, they so far prevailed, that, by 
evening, their authority was comparatively established. When dis¬ 
missed, the children were invited to return next day—informed that, of 
course, they could do so or not, ns they pleased, and that, if they did, 
they should be fed and instructed, but that, whether they came or not, 
begging would not be tolerated. Next day, the greater part returned. 
The managers felt that they bad triumphed, and that a great field of moral 
usefulness was now secured to them. 

The class who were brought to this school were far below those who 
attend the other two institutions—low as they appeared to be when the 
schools were first opened ; and the scenes of filth, disease, and misery, 
exhibited even in the school itself, were such as would speedily have 
driven from the work all merely sentimental philanthropists. Those who 
undertake this work must have sound, strong principle to influence them, 
else they will soon turn from it in disgust. 

The school went on prosperously; it soon excited public interest; funds 
flowed in; and, what is most gratifying, the working classes took a 
lively interest in it; and while the wealthier inhabitants of Aberdeen 
Contributed during the year about one hundred and fifty pounds for its 
support, the working men collected, and handed over to the committee, no 
less than two hundred and fifty pounds. 

Very few children in attendance at the industrial schools have been con- 


( 






56 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

victed of any offence. The regularity of attendance is owing to the children 
receiving their food in the school; and the school hours being from seven 
in themorning till seven at night, there is little opportunity for the com¬ 
mission of crime. 

The experience acquired in these schools, and the connexion which most 
of the managers had with the criminal courts of the city, led to the opening 
of a fourth institution—the Child’s Asylum. Acting from day to day as 
judges, these gentlemen had occasionally cases brought before them which 
gave them extreme pain. Children—nay, infants—were brought up on 
criminal charges : the facts alleged against them were incontestably proved; 
and yet, in a moral sense, they could scarcely be held guilty, because, in 
truth, they did not know that they had done wrong. 

There were, however, great practical difficulties in the way, which could 
only be got over indirectly. The magistrate could adjourn the case, directing 
the child to be cared for in the mean time, and inquiry could be made as to 
his family and relations, as to his character, and the prospect of his doing 
better in future; and he could either be restored to his relations, or boarded 
in the house of refuge, or with a family, and placed at one or other of the 
industrial schools; the charge of crime still remaining against him, to be 
made use of at once if he deserted school and returned to evil courses. 

The great advantage sought here was to avoid stamping the child for life 
with the character of a convicted felon before he deserved it. Once thus 
brand a child in this country, and it is all but impossible for him ever, by 
future good conduct, to efface the mark. How careful ought the law and 
those who administer it to be, not rashly to impress this stigma on the 
neglected child! 

The Child’s Asylum was opened on the 4th of December, 1846; and as 
a proof of the efficiency of the industrial schools in checking juvenile 
vagrancy and delinquency, it may be noticed that nearly a week elapsed 
before a child was brought to the asylum. When a child is apprehended 
by the police for begging, or other misdemeanour, he is conveyed to this 
institution, and his case is investigated; for which purpose the committee 
meets daily. If the child be of destitute parents, he is sent to one of the 
industrial schools; if the child of a worthless, but not needy, parent, 
efforts are made to induce the parent to fulfil his duty, and exercise his 
authority in restraining the evil habits of the child, by sending him to 
school, or otherwise removing him out of the way of temptation. 

From the 4th of December up to the 18th of March, forty-seven cases, 
several of them more than once, had been brought up and carefully inquired 
inlb. Most of them were disposed of in the manner now stated ; but a few 
were either claimed by, or remitted to, the procurator fiscal, as proper 
objects of punishment. 

It is premature to say much of an institution which has existed for so 
short a time; but if the principle on which it is founded be as correct and 
sound as it appears, it must prosper and do good. There is, however, one 
great practical difficulty, which can only be removed by legislative enact¬ 
ment ; there is no power at present to detain the children in the Asylum, 
or to force them to attend the schools to which they have been sent. 

Such have been the rise and progress of the four industrial schools in. 
Aberdeen, including, as one of them, the Child’s Asylum. 

All the schools are on the most catholic basis, the only qualification for 






REFORMATORY SCHOOLS OF ABERDEEN. 


57 

membership being a subscription of a few shillings a year; and the doors 
&re open to all who require admission, without distinction of sect or 
party. 

The experience, then, of Aberdeen appears to demonstrate the possi¬ 
bility of reclaiming even the most abject and depraved of our juvenile 
j population at a very moderate expense. The schools have been so long in 
operation, that, if there had been anything erroneous in the principles or 
the management of them, it must ere now have appeared; and if all the 
results have been encouraging, why should not the system be extended and 
established in other places ? There is nothing in it which may not easily be 
copied in any town or village of our land where it is required. 

I cannot help adding to this account some directions, which a very 
experienced teacher in these schools gives to those who are desirous of un¬ 
dertaking this enterprise. 

“1. The school rooms and appurtenances ought to be of the plainest and 
most unpretending description. This is perfectly consistent with the most 
scrupulous cleanliness and complete ventilation. In like manner, the food 
should be wholesome, substantial, and abundant, but very plain—such as 
the boys or girls may soon be able to attain, or even surpass, by their own 
exertions after leaving school. 

“ 2. The teachers must ever be of the best description, patient and per¬ 
severing, not easily discouraged, aud thoroughly versed in whatever branch 
they may have to teach; and, above all things, they must be persons of 
solid and undoubted piety—for without this qualification, all others will, 
in the end, prove worthless and unavailing. 

“Throughout the day, the children must ever be kept in mind that, 
after all, religion is ‘ the one thing needfulthat the soul is of more value. 
than the body. 

“ 3. The schools must he kept of moderate size: from their nature this 
is absolutely necessary. It is a task of the greatest difficulty to manage, 
in a satisfactory manner, a large school of children, even of the higher 
classes, with all the advantages of careful home-training and superin¬ 
tendence ; but with industrial schools it is folly to attempt it. 

“From eighty to one hundred scholars is the largest number that ever 
should be gathered into one institution; when they exceed this, let 
additional schools he opened; in other words, increase the number, not the 
size , of the schools. They should be put down in the localities most con¬ 
venient for the scholars, so that distance may be no bar to attendance; and 
if circumstances permit, a garden, either at the school or at no very great 
distance, will be of great utility. 

“4. As soon as practicable, the children should be taught, and kept 
Steadily at, some trade or other, by which they may earn their subsistence 
on leaving school; for the longer they have pursued this particular occu¬ 
pation at school, the more easily will they be able thereby to support them¬ 
selves afterwards. 

“ As to commencing schools in new places, the best way of proceeding is 
for a few persons, who are of one mind on the subject, to unite, advance 
from their own purses, or raise among their friends, the small sum necessary 
at the outset, get their teacher, open their school, and collect a few scholars, 
gradually extend the number, and when they have made some progress, 
then tell the public what they have been doing; ask them to come and see; 






53 SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 

and, if they approve, to give their money and support. Public meetings 
and eloquent speeches are excellent things for exciting interest and raising 
funds, but they are of no use in carrying on tlie every-day work of the ■ 

school. _ . , ■ 

“ Let not the managers expect impossibilities. There will be crime and 
distress in spite of industrial schools; but they may be immensely reduced; 
and let no one be discouraged by the occasional lapse into a crime of a pro¬ 
mising pupil. Such things must be while sin reigns in the heart of man; 
let them only be thereby stirred up to greater and more earnest exertion 
in their work. 

“Let them be most careful as to the parties whom they admit to act 
along with them; for unless all the labourers be of one heart and mind, 
divisions must ensue, and the whole work be marred. 

‘ ‘ It is most desirable that as many persons as possible of wealth and 
influence should lend their aid in supporting these institutions. Patrons 
and subscribers should be of all ranks and denominations; but they must 
beware of interfering with the actual daily working of the school, which 
ought to be left to the unfettered energies of those who, by their zeal, their 
activity, their sterling principle, and their successful administration, have 
proved themselves every way competent to the task they have undertaken, 

“ If the managers wish to carry out the good effect of their schools to the 
utmost, then they will uot confine their labour to the scholars; they will, 
through them , get access to the parents. The good which the ladies of the 
Aberdeen Female School have already thus accomplished is not to be told ; 
but let none try this work who do not experimentally know the value of 
the immortal soul.” 

Industrial schools seem to open a bright prospect to the hitherto neglected 
outcasts of our cities; for them a new era seems to be commencing: they 
are no longer to be restrained and kept in order by the iron bars of the 
prison house, and taught morality by the scourge of the executioner. They 
are now to be treated as reasonable and immortal beings; and may He who 
is the God of the poor as well as the rich give his effectual blessing with 
them, wherever they may be established, so that they may be a source of 
joy and rejoicing to all ranks of society. 

Such is the result of the “ speerings” recommended by my worthy cor¬ 
respondent. I have given them much at length, because they are useful to 
us in the much needed reforms commencing in our cities. 

As to the appalling statements about intemperance, I grieve to say that 
they are confirmed by much which must meet the eye even of the passing 
stranger. I have said before how often the natural features of this country 
reminded me of the State of Maine. Would that the beneficent law which 
has removed, to so great an extent, pauperism and crime from that noble 
state mi^lit also be given to Scotland. 

I suppose that the efforts for the benefit of the poorer classes in this city 
might be paralleled by efforts of a similar. nature in the other cities of 
Scotland, particularly in Edinburgh, where great exertions have been mak¬ 
ing ; but I happened to have a more full account of these in Aberdeen, and 
so give them as specimens of the whole. I must say, however, that in no 
city which I visited in Scotland did I see such neatness, order, and tho¬ 
roughness, as in Aberdeen ; and in none did there appear to be more gra¬ 
tifying evidences of prosperity and comfort among that class which one sees 
along the streets and thoroughfares. 





DUNDEE. 


59 

About two o’clock we started from Aberdeen among crowds of friends, to 
whom we bade farewell with deep regret. 

Our wav at first lay over the course of yesterday, along that beautiful 
sea coast—beautiful to the eye, but perilous to the navigator. They told 
us that the winds and waves raged here with an awful power. Not long 
before we came, the Duke of Sutherland, an iron steamer, wa.s wrecked 
upon this shore. In one respect the coast of Maine has decidedly the 
advantage over this, and, indeed, of every other sea coast which I have ever 
visited ; and that is in the richness of the wooding, which veils its pic¬ 
turesque points and capes in luxuriant foldings of verdure. 

At Stonehaven station, where we stopped a few minutes, there was quite 
a gathering of the inhabitants to exchange greetings, and afterwards at suc¬ 
cessive stations along the road, many a kindly face and voice made our jour¬ 
ney a pleasant one. 

When we got into old Dundee it seemed all alive with -welcome. We 
went in the carriage with the lord provost, Mr. Thoms, to his residence, 
where a party had been waiting dinner for us some time. 

The meeting in the evening was in a large church, densely crowded, and 
conducted much as the others had been. When they came to sing the 
closing hymn, I hoped they would sing Dundee ; but they did not, and I 
fear in Scotland, as elsewhere, the characteristic national melodies are 
giving way before more modern ones. 

On the stage we were surrounded by many very pleasant people, with 
wdiom, between the services, u r e talked without knowing their names. The 
venerable Dr. Dick, the author of the Christian Philosopher and the 
Philosophy of the Future State, was there. Gilfillan was also present, and 
spoke. Together with their contribution to the Scottish offering, they pre¬ 
sented me with quite a collection of the works of diffei’ent writers of Dundee, 
beautifully bound, 

We came away before the exercises of the evening were finished. 

The next morning we had quite a large breakfast party, mostly ministers 
and their wives. Good old Dr. Dick was there, and I had an intro< uc ion 
to him, and had pleasure in speaking to him of the interest with which his 
works have been read in America. Of this fact I was told that lie had 
received more substantial assurance in a comfortable sum of money sub¬ 
scribed and remitted to him by his American readers. If this be so it is a 
most commendable movement. 

What a pity it was, during Scott’s financial embarrassments, that every 
man, woman, and child in America, who had received pleasure from his 
writings, had not subscribed something towards an offering justly due to 

him ! 

Our host, Mr. Thoms, was one of the first to republish in Scotland Pro¬ 
fessor Stuart’s Letters to Dr. Channing, with a preface of his own. He 
showed me Professor Stuart’s letter in reply, and seemed rather amused, 
that the professor directed it to the Lev. James Thom, supposing, of 
course, that so much theological zeal could not inhere in a layman. He 
also showed us many autograph letters of their former pastor, Mr. Cheyne, 
whose interesting memoirs have excited a good deal of attention in some 
circles in America. 

After breakfast the ladies of the Dundee Antislavery Society called, and 
then the lord provost took us in his carriage to see the city. Dundee is the 
third town of Scotland in population, and a place of great antiquity. Its 






60 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

population in 1851 was seventy-eight thousand eight hundred and twenty- 
nine, and the manufactures consist principally of yarns, linen, with canvass 
and cotton bagging, great quantities of which are exported to France and 
North and South America. There are about sixty spinning mills and fac¬ 
tories in the town and neighbourhood, besides several iron foundries and 
manufactories of steam engines and machinery. 

Dundee has always been a stronghold of liberty and the reformed re¬ 
ligion. It is said that in the grammar school of this town William "\\ allace 
was educated; and here an illustrious confraternity of noblemen and gentry 
was formed, who joined to resist the tyranny of England. 

Here Wishart preached in the beginning of the reformation, preparatory 
to his martyrdom. Here flourished some rude historical writers, who 
devoted their talents to the downfall of Popery. Singularly enough, they 
accomplished this in part by dramatic representations, in which the vice3 
and absurdities of the Papal establishment were ridiculed before the people. 
Among others, one James Wedderburn and his brother, John, vicar of 
Dundee, are mentioned as having excelled in this kind of composition. 
The same authors composed books of song, denominated “ (Jude and Godly 
Ballads,” wherein the frauds and deceits of Popery were fully pointed out. 
A third brother of the family, being a musical genius, it is said, ‘ ‘ turned 
the times and tenour of many profane songs into godly songs and hymns, 
whereby he stirred up the affections of many,” which tunes were called the 
Psalms of Dundee. Plere, perhaps, was the origin of “Dundee’s wild 
warbling measures.” 

The conjoint forces of tragedy, comedy, ballads, and music, thus brought 
to bear on the popular mind, was very great. 

Dundee has been a great sufferer during the various civil commotions in 
Scotland. In the time of Charles I. it stood out for the solemn league and 
covenant, for which crime the Earl of Montrose was sent against it, who 
took and burned it. It is said that he called Dundee a most seditious 
town, the securest haunt and receptacle of rebels, and a place that had 
contributed as much as any other to the rebellion. Yet afterwards, when 
Montrose was led a captive through Dundee, the historian observes, “ It is 
remarkable of the town of Dundee, in which he lodged one night, that 
though it had suffered more by his army than any town else within the 
kingdom, yet were they, amongst all the rest, so far from exulting over 
him, that the whole town testified a great deal of sorrow for his woful con¬ 
dition ; and there was he likewise furnished with clothes suitable to his 
birth and person.” 

This town of Dundee was stormed by Monk and the forces of Parliament 
during the time of the commonwealth, because they had sheltered the fugi¬ 
tive Charles II., and granted him money. "When taken by Monk, he com¬ 
mitted a great many barbarities. 

It has also been once visited by the plague, and once with a seven yeard 
dearth or famine. 

Most of these particulars I found in a History of Dundee, which formed 
one of the books presented to me. 

The town is beautifully situated on the Firth of Tay, which here spreads 
its waters, and the quantity of shipping indicates commercial prosperity. 

I was shown no abbeys or cathedrals, either because none ever existed, 
or because they were destroyed when the town was fired. 



THE QUEEN IN SCOTLAND. 


61 

In our rides about the city, the local recollections that our friends seemed 
to recur to with as much interest as any, were those connected with the 
queen’s visit to Dundee, in 1844. The spot where she landed has been 
commemorated by the erection of a superb triumphal arch in stone. The 
provost said some of the people were quite astonished at the plainness of 
the queen’s dress, having looked for something very dazzling and over¬ 
powering from a queen. They could scarcely believe their eyes, when they 
saw her riding by in a plain bonnet, and enveloped in a simple shepherd’s 
plaid. 

The queen is exceedingly popular in Scotland, doubtless in part because 
she heartily appreciated the beauty of the country, and the strong and in- 
) teresting traits of the people. She has a country residence at Balmoral, 
where she spends a part of every year; and the impression seems to prevail 
among her Scottish subjects, that she never appears to feel herself more 
happy or more at home than in this her Highland dwelling. The legend 
is, that here she delights to throw off the restraints of royalty; to go about 
plainly dressed, like a private individual; to visit in the cottages of the 
poor; to interest herself in the instruction of the children; and to initiate 
the future heir of England into that practical love of the people w r hich is 
the best qualification for a ruler. 

I repeat to you the things which I hear floating of the public characters 
of England, and you can attach what degree of credence you may think 1 
proper. As a general rule in this censorious world, I think it safe to sup¬ 
pose that the good which is commonly reported of public characters, if not 
true in the letter of its details, is at least so in its general spirit. The 
stories which are told about distinguished people generally run in a channel 
coincident with the facts of their character. On the other hand, with 
regard to evil reports, it is safe always to allow something for the natural 
propensity to detraction and slander, which is one of the most undoubted 
facts of human nature in all lands. 

We left Dundee at two o’clock, by cars, for Edinburgh. In the evening 
we attended another soiree of the working men of Edinburgh. As it was 
similar in all respects to the one at Glasgow, I will not dwell upon it, 
further than to say how gratifying to me, in every respect, are occasions in 
which working men, as a class, stand out before the public. They are to 
form, more and more, a new power in society, greater than the old power 
of helmet and sword, and I rejoice in every indication that they are learning 
to understand themselves. 

We have received letters from the working men, both in Dundee and 
Glasgow, desiring our return to attend soirees in those cities. Nothing 
could give us greater pleasure, had we time and strength. No class of men 
are more vitally interested in the conflict of freedom against slavery than 
working men. The principle upon which slavery is founded touches every 
interest of theirs. If it be right that one half of the community should 
deprive the other half of education, of all opportunities to rise in the world, 
of all property rights and all family ties, merely to make them more con¬ 
venient tools for their profit and luxury, then every injustice and extortion, 
which oppresses the labouring man in any country, can be equally defended. 







SUNNY MEMORIES OR FOREIGN LANDS. 


62 


LETTER VIII. 

MELROSE.—DRYBUEGH.—ABBOTSEORB. 

Dear Aunt E.:— 

You v/an tod us to write about our visit to Melrose; so here you have it. 

On Tuesday morning Mr. S. and C-had agreed to go back to Glasgow 

for the purpose of speaking at a temperance meeting, and as we were re¬ 
stricted for time, we were obliged to make the visit to Melrose in their 

absence, much to the regret of us all. G-- thought we would make a 

little quiet run out in the cars by ourselves, while Mr. S. and C-were 

gone back to Glasgow. 

It was one of those soft, showery, April days, misty and mystical, now 
weeping and now shining, that we found ourselves whirled by the cars 
through this enchanted ground of Scotland. Almost every name we heard 
spoken along the railroad, every stream we passed, every point we looked 
at, i-ecalled some line of Walter Scott’s poetry, or some event of history. 
The thought that he was gene for ever, whose genius had given the charm 
to all, seemed to settle itself down like a melancholy mist. To how little 
pui'iiose seemed the few, short years of his life, compared with the capa¬ 
bilities of such a soul! Brilliant as his success had been, how was it. 
passed like a dream ! It seemed sad to think that he had not only passed 
away himself, but that almost the whole family and friendly circle had 
passed with him—not a son left to bear his name! 

Here we were in the region of the Ettriek, the Yarrow, and tlie Tweed. 

I opened the Lay of the Last Minstrel, and, as if by instinct, the first ' 
lines my eye fell upon were these :— 

“ Call it not vain : they do not err 
Who say, that when the poet dies. 

Mute nature mourns her worshipper, 

And celebrates his obsequies: 

Who say, tall cliff and cavern lone 
For the departed bard make moan; 

That mountains weep in crystal rill; 

That flowers in tears of balm distil; 

Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, 

And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; 

And rivers teach their rushing wave 
To murmur dirges round his grave.” 

Melrose!” said the lond voice of the conductor; and starting, I looked 
up and saw quite a flourishing village, in the midst of which rose the old, 
grey, mouldering walls of the abbey. Now, this was somewhat of a disap¬ 
pointment to me. I had been somehow expecting to find the building 
standing alone in the middle of a great heath, far from all abodes of men, 
and with no companions more hilarious than the owls. However, it was no 
use complaining; the fact was, there was a village, and what was more, a 
hotel, and to this hotel we were to go to get a guide for the places we were 
to visit; for it was understood that we were to “ do ” Melrose, Dry burgh 
and Abbotsford, all in one day. There was no time for sentiment; it was 
a business affair, that must be looked in the face promptly, if we meant to 
get through. Ejaculations and quotations of poetry could, of course be 
thrown in, as William of Deloraine pattered his prayers, while riding. 







ABBOTSFOED. 63 

We all alighted at a very comfortable hotel, and were ushered into as 
snug a little parlour as one’s heart could desire. 

The next thing was to hire a coachman to take us, in the rain,—for the 
mist had now swelled into a rain,—through the whole appropriate round. 
I stood by and heard names which I had never heard before, except in song, 

, brought into view in their commercial relations; so much for Abbotsford; 
i and so much for Dryburgh;’ and then, if we would like to throw in Thomas 
. the Rhymer’s Tower, why, that would be something extra, 
r “ Thomas the Rhymer?” said one of the party, not exactly posted up. 
i ‘ ‘ Was he anything remarkable ? Well, is it worth while to go to his tower ? 
> It will cost something extra, and take more time.” 

V' eighed in such a sacrilegious balance, Thomas was found wanting, of 
r course: the idea of driving three or four miles farther to see an old tower, 

i supposed to have belonged to a man who is supposed to have existed and to 

| have been carried off by a supposititious Queen of the Fairies into Elfland, 
was too absurd for reasonable people; in fact, I made believe myself that I 

did not care much about it, particularly as the landlady remarked, that if 

we did not get home by five o’clock “the chops might be spoiled.” 

As we were all packed into a tight coach, the rain still pouring, I began 
to wish mute Nature would not be quite so energetic in distilling her tears. 
A few sprinkling showers, or a graceful wreath of mist, might be all very 
well, but a steady, driving rain, that obliged us to shut up the carriage 
windows, and coated them with mist so that we could not look out, why, I 
say it is enough to put out the fire of sentiment in any heart. We might 
as well have been rolled up in a bundle and carried through the country, 
for all the seeing it was possible to do under such circumstances. It, 
therefore, should be stated, that we did keep bravely up in our poetic zeal, 
which kindly Mrs. W. also reinforced, by distributing certain very delicate 
sandwiches to support the outer man. 

At length, the coach stopped at the entrance of Abbotsford grounds, 
where there was a cottage, out of which, due notice being given, came a 
trim, little old woman in a black gown, with pattens on; she put up her 
umbrella, and we all put up ours; the rain poured harder than ever as we 
went dripping up the gravel w r alk, looking much, I inly fancied, like a set 
of discomforted fowls fleeing to covert. We entered the great court yard, 
surrounded with a high wall, into which were built sundry fragments' of 
urious architecture that happened to please the poet’s fancy. 

I had at the moment, spite of the rain, very vividly in my mind 
Washington Irving’s graceful account of his visit to Abbotsford while this 
house was yet building, and the picture which he has given of Walter Scott 
sitting before his door, humorously descanting on various fragments of 
sculpture, which lay scattered about, and which he intended to immortalize 
by incorporating into his new dwelling. 

Viewed as a mere speculation, or, for aught I know, as an architectural 
effort, this building may, perhaps, be counted as a mistake and a failure. 

I observe, that it is quite customary to speak of it, among some,, as a pity 
that he ever undertook it. But viewed as a development of his inner life, 
as a working out in wood and stone of favourite fancies and cherished ideas, 
the building has to me a deep interest. The gentle-hearted poet delighted 
himself in it; this house was his stone and wood poem, as irregular, per¬ 
haps, and as contrary to any established rule, as his Lay of the Last 







64 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


Minstrel, but still wild and poetic. The building has this interest, that it 
was throughout his own conception, thought, and choice; that he expressed 
himself in every stone that was laid, and made it a kind of shrine, into 
which he wove all his treasures of antiquity, and where he imitated, from 
the beautiful, old, mouldering ruins of Scotland, the parts that had touched 


if 

PI 

to 


him most deeply. 

The walls of one room were of carved oak from the Dunfermline Abbey; 
the ceiling of another imitated from lloslin Castle; here a fireplace was 
wrought in the image of a favorite niche in Melrose; and there the ancient 
pulpit of Erskine was wrought into a wall. To him, doubtless, every 
object in the house was suggestive of poetic fancies; every carving and bit 
of tracery had its history, and was as truly an expression of something in 
the poet’s mind as a verse of his poetry. 

A building wrought out in this way, and growing up like a bank of coral, 
may very possibly violate all the proprieties of criticism; it may possibly, 
too, violate one’s ideas of mere housewifery utility; but by none of these 
rules ought such a building to be judged. We should look at it rather as u 
the poet’s endeavour to render outward and visible the dream-land of his 
thoughts, and to create for himself a refuge from the cold, dull realities of 
life, in an architectural romance. 

These were the thoughts which gave interest to the scene as we passed 
through the porchway, adorned with petrified stag’s horns, into the long 
entrance-hall of the mansion. This porch was copied from one in Linlith- ' 
gov/ palace. One side of this hall was lighted by windows of painted glass. 
The floor was of black and white marble from the Hebrides. Hound the 
whole cornice there was a line of coats armorial, richly blazoned, and the 
following inscription in old German text:— 

“ These be the coat armories of the clanns and chief men of name wha 
keepit the marchys of Scotland in the old tyme for the kynge. Trewe men 
war they in their tyme, and in their defence Gotiphem defendyt.” 

There were the names of the Douglases, tjfe Elliots, the Scotts, the 
Armstrongs, and others. I looked at this Arrangement with interest, 
because I knew that Scott must have taken a particular delight in it. 

The fireplace, designed from a niche in Melrose Abbey, also in this room, 
and a choice bit of sculpture it is. In it was an old grate, which had its 
history also, and opposite to it the boards from the pulpit of Erskine were 
wrought into a kind of side table, or something which served that purpose. 
The spaces between the windows were decorated with pieces of armour, 
crossed swords, and stags’ horns, each one of which doubtless had its 
history. On each side of the door, at the bottom of the hall, was a Gothic 
shrine, or niche, in both of which stood a figure in complete armour. 

Then we went into the drawing-room; a lofty saloon, the woodwork of 
which is entirely of cedar, richly wrought; probably another of the author’s 
favourite poetic fancies. It is adorned with a set of splendid antique 
ebony furniture; cabinet, chairs, and piano—the gift of George IV. to the 
poet. 

We went into his library; a magnificent room, on which, I suppose, the 
poet’s fancy had expended itself more than any other. The roof is - f 
carved oak, after models from lloslin Castle. Here, in a niche, is a marble 
bust of Scott, as we understood a present from Chantrey to the poet; it 
was one of the best and most animated representations of him I ever saw, 








ABBOTSFORD. 


65 


and very much superior to the one under the monument in Edinburgh. On 
expressing my idea to this effect, I found I had struck upon a favourite 
notion of the good woman who showed us the establishment; she seemed 
to be an ancient servant of the house, and appeared to entertain a regard 
for the old laird scarcely less than idolatry. One reason why this statue 
is superior is, that it represents his noble forehead, which the Edinburgh 
one suffers to be concealed by falling hair: to cover such a forehead seems 
scarcely less than a libel. 

The whole air of this room is fanciful and picturesque in the extreme. 
The walls are entirely filled with the bookcases, there being about twenty 
thousand volumes. A small room opens from the library, which was 
Scott’s own private study. His writing-table stood in the centre, with his 
inkstand on it, and before it a large, plain, black leather arm chair. 

In a glass case, I think in this room, was exhibited the suit of clothes he 
last wore; a blue coat with large metal buttons, plaid trousers, and broad- 
brimmed hat. Around the sides of this room there was a gallery of light 
tracery work ; a flight of stairs led up to it, and in one corner of it was a 
door which the woman said led to the poet’s bed room. One seemed to see 
in all this arrangement how snug, and cozy, and comfortable the poet had 
thus ensconced himself, to give himself up to his beloved labours and his 
poetic dreams. But there was a cold and desolate air of order and adjust¬ 
ment about it which reminds one of the precise «nd chilling arrangements 
of a room from which has just been carried out a corpse; all is silent and 
deserted. 

The house is at present the property of Scott’s only surviving daughter, 
whose husband has assumed the name of Scott. We could not learn from 
our informant whether any of the family was in the house. We saw only 
the rooms which are shown to visitors, and a coldness, like that of death, 
seemed to strike to mjfeheart from their chilly solitude. 

As we went out of the house we passed another company of tourists 
coming in, to whom we heard our guide commencing the same recitation, 
“this is,” and “this is,” &c., just as she had done to us. One thing 
about the house and grounds had disappointed me; there was not one view 
from a single window I saw that was worth anything, in point of beauty; 
why a poet, with an eye for the beautiful, could have located a house in 
such an indifferent spot, on an estate where so many beautiful sites were at 
his command, I could not imagine. 

As to the external appearance of Abbotsford, it is as irregular as can well 
be imagined. There are gables, and pinnacles, and spires, and balconies, 
and buttresses anywhere and everywhere, without rhyme or reason; for 
wherever the poet wanted a balcony, he had it; or wherever he had a frag¬ 
ment of carved stone, or a bit of historic tracery, to put in, he made a 
shrine for it forthwith, without asking leave of any rules. This I take to 
be one of the main advantages of Gothic architecture; it is a most catholic 
and tolerant system, and any kind of eccentricity may find refuge beneath 
uls mantle. 

Here and there, all over the house, are stones carved with armorial 
bearings and pious inscriptions, inserted at random wherever the poet 
fancied. Half-way up the wall in one place is the door of the old Tolbooth 
at Edinburgh, with the inscription over it, “The Lord of armeis is my 
protector; b ,; ssit ar thay that trust in the Lord. 1575.” 










66 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


A doorway at the west end of the house is composed of stones which 
formed the portal of the Tolbooth, given to Sir Walter on the pulling down 
of the building in 1817. 

On the east side of the house is a rude carving of a sword with the words, 
“Up with ye, sutoi’s of Selkyrke. A. D. 1525.” Another inscription, on 
the same side of the house, runs thus:— 

“ By night, by day, remember ay 
The goodness of the Lord; 

And thank his name, whose glorious fame 
Is spread throughout the world.-—A. C. M. D. 1516.” 

In the yard, to the right of the doorway of the mansion, we saw the 
figure of Scott’s favourite dog Maida, with a Latin inscription— 

<f Maidte marmorea dormis sub imagine, Maida, 

Ad januam domini: sit tibi terra levis.” 

Which in our less expressive English we might render— 

“ At thy lord’s door, in slumbers light and blest, 

Maida, beneath this marble Maida, rest: 

Light lie the turf upon thy gentle breast.” 

One of the most endearing traits of Scott was that sympathy and harmony 
which always existed between him and the brute creation. 

Poor Maida seemed cold and lonely, washed by the rain in the damp grass 
plat. How sad, yet how expressive is the scriptural phrase for indicating 
death! “He shall return to his house no more, neither shall his place 
know him any more.” And this is what all our homes are coming to; 
our buying, our planting, our building, our marrying and giving in mar¬ 
riage, our genial firesides and dancing children, are all like so many figures 
passing through the magic lantern, to be put out at last in death. 

The grounds, I was told, are full of beautiful paths and seats, favourite 
walks and lounges of the poet; but the obdurate pertinacity of the rain 
compelled us to choose the very shortest path possible to the carriage. I 
picked a leaf of the Portugal laurel, which I send you. 

Next we were driven to Dryburgh, or rather to the banks of the Tweed, 
where a ferryman, with a small skiff, waits to take passengers over. 

The TAveed is a clear, rippling river, with a Avhite, pebbly bottom, just 
like our New England mountain streams. After Ave landed Ave were to 
walk to the Abbey. Our feet were damp and cold, and our boatman 
invited us to his cottage. I found him and all his family warmly interested 
in the fortunes of Uncle Tom and his friends, and for his sake they received 
me as a long-expected friend. While I was sitting by the ingleside,—that 
is, a coal grate,—warming my feet, I fell into conversation with my hast. 
He and his family, I noticed, spoke English more than Scotch; he \vas an 
intelligent young man, in appearance and style of mind precisely what you 
might expect to meet in a cottage in Maine. He and all the household, 
even the old grandmother, had.iread Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and Avere per¬ 
fectly familiar with all its details. He told me that it had been universally 
read in the cottages in the vicinity. I judged from his mode of speaking, 
that he and his neighbours were in the habit of reading a great deal. I 
spoke of going to Dryburgh to see the grave of Scott, and inquired if his 
works were much read by the common people. He said that Scott Avas not 
so much a favourite with the people as Burns. I inquired if he took a 
neAvspaper. He said that the neAvspapers Avere kept at so high a price that 






DEYBURGH. 


07 

working men were not able to take them ; sometimes they got sight of them 
through clubs, or by borrowing. How different, thought I, from America, 
where a working man would as soon think of going without his bread as 
without his newspaper! 

The cottages of these labouring people, of which there were a whole 
village along here, are mostly of stone, thatched with straw. This thatch 
sometimes gets almost entirely grown over with green moss. Thus moss- 
covered was the roof of the cottage where we stopped, opposite to Dryburgh 
grounds. 

There was about this time one of those weeping pauses in the showery 
sky, and a kind of thinning and edging away of the clouds, which gave 
hope that perhaps the sun was going to look out, and give to our perse¬ 
vering researches the countenance of his presence. This was particularly 
desirable, as the old woman, who came out with her keys to guide us, said 
she had a cold and a cough : we begged that she would not trouble herself 
to go with us at all. The fact is, with all respect to nice old women, and 
the worthy race of guides in general, they are not favourable to poetic 
meditation. We promised to be very good if she would let us have the 
key, and lock up all the gates, and bring it back ; but no, she was faith¬ 
fulness itself, and so went coughing along through the dripping and drowned 
grass to open the gates for us. 

This Dryburgh belongs now to the Earl of Buchan, having been bought 
by him from a family of the name of Haliburton, ancestral connexions of 
Scott, who, in his autobiography, seems to lament certain mischances of 
fortune which prevented the estate from coming into his own family, and 
gave them, he said, nothing but the right of stretching their bones there. 
It seems a pity, too, because the possession of this rich, poetic ruin would 
have been a mine of wealth to Scott, far transcending the stateliest of 
modern houses. 

Now, if you do not remember Scott’s poem of the Eve of St. John, you 
ought to read it over ; for it is, I think, the most spirited of all his ballads ; 
nothing conceals the transcendant lustre and beauty of these compositions, 
but the splendour of his other literary productions. Had he never written 
anything but these, they would have made him a name as a poet. As it 
was, I found the fanciful chime of the cadences in this ballad ringing 
through my ears. I kept saying to myself—• 

** The Dryburgh bells do ring, 

And the white monks do sing 
For Sir Richard of Coldinghame.” 

And as I was wandering around in the labyrinth of old, broken, mossy 
arches, I thought— 

*‘ c There is a nun in Dryburgh bower 
Ne’er looks upon the sun; 

There is a monk in Mel^ge tower. 

He speaketh word to none. 

“ That nun who ne’er beholds the day, 

That monk who speaks to none, 

That nun was Smajdhome’s lady gay. 

That monk the bold Baron.” 

It seems that there is a vault in this edifice which has had some super¬ 
stitious legends attached to it, from having been the residence, about fifty 
years ago, of a mysterious lady, who, being under a vow never to behold 

s' 2 










08 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

the light vt the sun, only left her cell at midnight. This little story, of 
course, gives just enough superstitious chill to this beautiful ruin to help 
the effect of the pointed arches, the clinging wreaths of ivy, the shadowy 
pines, and yew trees ; in short, if one had not a guide waiting, who had a 
bad cold, if one could stroll here at leisure by twilight or moonlight, one 
might get up a considerable deal of the mystic and poetic. 

There is a part of the ruin that stands most picturesquely by itself, as 
if old Time had intended it for a monument. It is the ruin of that part 
of the chapel called St. Mary’s Aisle ; it stands surrounded by luxuriant 
thickets of pine and other trees, a cluster of beautiful Gothic arches sup¬ 
porting a second tier of smaller and more fanciful ones, one or two of which 
have that light touch of the Moorish in their form which gives such a 
singular and poetic effect in many of the old Gothic ruins. Out of these 
wild arches and window's w r ave wreaths of ivy, and slender harebells shake 
their blue pendants, looking in and out of the lattices like little capricious 
fairies. There are fragments of ruins lying on the ground, and the whole 
air of the thing is as wdld, and dreamlike, and picturesque as the poet’s 
fanciful heart could have desired. 

Underneath these arches he lies beside his wife : around him the repre¬ 
sentation of the two things he loved most—the wild bloom and beauty of 
nature, and the architectural memorial of by-gone history and art. Yet 
there was one thing I felt I would have had otherwdse; it seemed to me 
that the flat stones of the pavement are a weight too heavy and too cold to 
be laid on the breast of a lover of nature and the beautiful. The green 
turf, springing with flowers, that lies above a grave, does not seem to us 
so hopeless a barrier between us and what was warm and loving ; the 
springing grass and daisies there seem types and assurances that the mortal 
beneath shall put on immortality ; they come up to us as kind messages 
from the peaceful dust, to say that it is resting in a certain hope of a glo- ■ 
rious resurrection. 

On the cold flagstones, walled in by iron railings, there were no daisies 
and no ir.osss ; but I picked many of both from the green turf around, 
which, with some sprigs of ivy from the walls, I send you. 

It is strange that we turn away from the grave of this man, who achieved i 
to himself the most brilliant destiny that ever an author did,—raising 
himself by his own unassisted efforts to be the chosen companion of nobles 
and princes, obtaining all that heart could desire of riches and honour,— 
we turn away and say, Poor Walter Scott ! How desolately touching is 
the account in Lockhart, of his dim and indistinct agony the day his wife 
was brought here to be buried ! and the last part of that biography is the 
saddest history that I know; it really makes us breathe a long sigh of 
relief when we read of the lowering of the coffin into this vault. 

What force does all this give to the passage in his diary in which he 
records his estimate of life!— £ -“ What is this world? a dream within a 
dream. As we grow older, each step is an awakening. The youth awakes, 
as he thinks, from childhood ; the full-grown man despises the pursuits of 
youth as visionary; the old man looks on manhood as a feverish dream. 
The grave the last sleep ? No ; it is the last and final awakening.” 

It has often been remarked, that there is no particular moral purpose 
aimed at by Scott in his writings; he often speaks of it himself, in his last 
days, in a tone of humility. He represents himself as having been em* 







OLD MORTALITY. 


69 


ployed mostly in tlie comparatively secondary department of giving inno¬ 
cent amusement. He often expressed, humbly and earnestly, the hope 
that he had, at least, done no harm; hut I am inclined to think, that 
although moral effect was not primarily his object, yet the influence of his 
writings and whole existence on earth has been decidedly good. 

It is a great thing to have a mind of such power and such influence, 
whose recognitions of right and wrong, of virtue and vice, were, in most 
cases, so clear and determined. He never enlists our sympathies in favour 
of vice, by drawing those seductive pictures, in which it comes so near the 
shape and form of virtue that the mind is puzzled as to the boundary line. 
He never makes young ladies feel that they would like to marry corsairs, 
pirates, or sentimental villains of any description. The most objectionable 
thing, perhaps, about his influence, is its sympathy with the war spirit. 
A person Christianly educated can hardly read some of his descriptions in 
the Lady of the Lake and Marmion, without an emotion of disgust, like 
what is excited by the same things in Homer ; and, as the world comes 
more and more under the influence of Christ, it will recede more and more 
from this kind of literature. 

Scott has been censured as being wilfully unjust to the Covenanters and 
Puritans. I think he meant really to deal fairly by them, and what he 
called fairness might seem rank injustice to those brought up to venerate 
them, as we have been. I suppose that in Old Mortality it was Scott’s 
honest intention to balance the two parties about fairly, by putting on the 
Covenant side his good, steady, well-behaved hero, Mr. Morton, who is just 
as much of a Puritan as the Puritans would have been had they taken Sir 
Walter Scott’s advice; that is to say, a very nice, sensible, moral man, who 
takes the Puritan side because he thinks it the right side, but contemplates 
all the devotional enthusiasm and religious ecstasies of his associates from a 
merely artistic and pictorial point of view. The trouble was, when he got 
his model Puritan done, nobody ever knew what he was meant for; and then 
all the young ladies voted steady Henry Morton a bore, and went to falling 
in love with his Cavalier rival, Lord Evandale, and people talked as if it 
was a preconcerted arrangement of Scott, to surprise the female heart, and 
carry it over to the royalist side. 

The fact was, in describing Evandale, he made a living, effective charac¬ 
ter, because he was describing something he had full sympathy with, and 
put his whole life into; but Henry Morton is a laborious arrangement of 
starch and pasteboard to produce one of those supposititious, just-right men, 
who are always the stupidest of mortals after they are made. As to why 
Scott did not describe such a character as the martyr Duke of Argyle, or 
Hampden, or Sir Harry Vane, where high birth, and noble breeding, and 
chivalrous sentiment were all united with intense devotional fervour, the 
answer is, that he could not do it; he had not that in him wherewith to do 
it; a man cannot create that of which he has not first had the elements in 
himself; and devotional enthusiasm is a thing which Scott never felt. 
Nevertheless, I believe that he was perfectly sincere in saying that he 
would, “if necessary, die a martyr for Christianity.” He had calm, firm 
principle, to any extent, but it never was kindled into fervour. He was of 
too calm and happy a temperament to sound the deepest recesses of souls 
torn up from their depths by mighty conflicts and sorrows. There are 
souls like the “alabaster vase of ointment, very precious,” which shed no 



SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


70 

perfume of devotion, because a great sorrow lias never broken tliem. 
Could Scott have been given back to the world again, after the heavy disci¬ 
pline of life had passed over him, he would have spoken otherwise of many 
things. What he vainly struggled to say to Lockhart, on his deathbed, 
would have been a new revelation of his soul to the world, could he have 
lived to unfold it in literature. But so it is : when we have learned to live, 
life’s purpose is answered, and we die ! 

This is the sum and substance of some conversations held while rambling 
among these scenes, going in and out of arches, climbing into nooks and 
through loopholes, picking moss and ivy, and occasionally retreating under 
the shadow of some arch, while the skies were indulging in a sudden burst 
of emotion. The poor woman who acted as our guide, ensconcing herself in 
a dry corner, stood like a literal Patience on a monument, waiting for us to 
be through; we were sorry for her, but as it was our first and last chance, 
and she would stay there, we could not help it. 

Near by the abbey is a square, modern mansion, belonging to the Earl of 
Buchan, at present untenanted. There were some black, solemn yew trees 
there, old enough to have told us a deal of history had they been inclined to 
speak ; as it was, they could only drizzle. 

As we were walking through the yard, a bird broke out into a clear, 
sweet song. 

‘ ‘ What bird is that ?” said I. 

“I think it is the mavis,” said the guide. This brought up,— 

“ The mavis wild, wie mony a note. 

Sings drowsy day to rest.” 

And also,— 

“ Merry it is in wild green wood. 

When mavis and merle are singing.” 

A verse, by the by, dismally suggestive of contrast to this rainy day. 

As we came along out of the gate, walking back towards the village of 
Dryburgh, we began to hope that the skies had fairly wept themselves out; 
at any rate the rain stopped, and the clouds wore a sulky, leaden-gray 
aspect, as if they were thinking what to do next. 

We saw a knot of respectable-looking labouring men at a little distance 
conversing in a group, and now and then stealing "lances at us; one of them 
at last approached and inquired if this was Mrs. Stowe, and being answered 
in the affirmative, they all said heartily, “Madam, ye’re right welcome to 
Scotland.” The chief speaker, then, after a little conversation, asked our 
party if we would do him the favour to step into his cottage near by, to 
take a little refreshment after our ramble; to which we assented with 
alacrity. He led the way to a neat, stone cottage, with a flower garden 
before the door, and said to a thrifty, rosy-cheeked woman, who met us, 
“Well, and what do you think, wife, if I have brought Mrs. Stowe and 
her party to take a cup of tea with us?” 

We were soon seated in a neat, clean kitchen, and our hostess hastened 
to put the teakettle over the grate, lamenting that she had not known of 
our coming, that she might have had a fire “ ben the house,” meaning by 
the phrase what we Yankees mean by “in the best room.” We caught a 
glimpse of the carpet and paper of this room, when the door was opened to 
bring out a few more chairs. 

“ Belyve the bairns cam dropping in,” 





WORKING- MEN AND SLAVES. 71 

rosy-clieekecl, fresh from school, with satchel and school-hooks, to whom I 
was introduced as the mother of Topsy and Eva. 

“ Ah,” said the father, “such a time as we had, when we were reading 
the book ; whiles they were greetin’ and whiles in a rage.” 

My host was quite a young-looking man, with the clear blue eye and glow¬ 
ing complexion which one so often meets here; and his wife, with her 
blooming cheeks, neat dress, and well-kept house, was evidently one of 
those fully competent . 

“ To gar old claea look amaist as weel as new.” 

I inquired the ages of the several children, to which the father answered 
with about as much chronological accuracy as men generally display in Such 
points of family history. The gude wife, after correcting his figures once 
or twice, turned away with a somewhat indignant exclamatiou about men 
that didn’t know their own bairns’ ages, in which many of us, I presume, 
could sympathize. 

I must not omit to say, that a neighbour of our host had been pressed to 
come in with us ; an intelligent-looking man, about fifty. In the course 
of conversation, I found that they were both masons by trade, and as 
the rain had prevented their working, they had met to spend their time in 
reading. They said they were reading a work on America; and thereat 
followed a good deal of general conversation on our country. I'found that, 
like many others in this old country, they had a tie to connect them with 
the new—a son in America. 

One of our company, in the course of the conversation, says, “ They say 
in America that the working classes of England and Scotland are not so 
well off as the slaves.” The man’s eye flashed. “ There are many things/* 
he said, “about the working classes, which are not what they should be; 
there’s room for a great deal of improvement in our condition, but,” he 
added with an emphasis, “ we are no slaves /” There was a touch of the 

“ Scots wha ha* wi’ Wallace bled” 

about the man, as he spoke, w T hich made the affirmation quite unnecessary. 

“ But,” said I, “ you think the affairs of the working classes much im¬ 
proved of late years?” 

“ 0, certainly,” said the other; “ since the repeal of the corn laws and 
the passage of the factory bill, and this emigration to America and Australia, 
affairs have been very much altered.” 

We asked them what they could make a day bj' their trade. It was much 
less, certainly, than is paid for the same labour in our country; but yet the 
air of comfort and respectability about the cottage, the well-clothed and 
well-schooled, intelligent children, spoke well for the result of their labours. 

While our conversation was carried on, the teakettle commenced singing 
most melodiously, and by a mutual system of accommodation, a neat tea-table 
was spread in the midst of us, and we soon found ourselves seated, enjoy¬ 
ing some delicious bread and butter, with the garniture of cheese, preserves, 
and tea. Our host before the meal craved a blessing of Him who had made 
of one blood all the families of the earth ; a beautiful and touching allusion, 

I thought, between Americans and Scotchmen. Our long ramble in the 
rain had given us something of an appetite, and we did ample justice to the 
excellence of the cheer. 

After tea we walked on down again towards the Tweed, our host and Ms 







72 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

friends waiting on us to the boat. As we passed through the village of 
Dryburgh, all the inhabitants of the cottages seemed to be standing in their 
doors, bowing and smiling, and expressing their welcome in a gentle, kindly 
way, that was quite touching. 

As we were walking towards the Tweed, the Eildon Hill, with its three 
points, rose before us in the horizon. X thought of the words in the Lay of 
the Last Minstrel:— 

“AVarrior, I could saj'- to thee 
The words that cleft Eildon Hill in three, 

And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone.” 

I appealed to my friends if they knew anything about the tradition; I 
thought they seemed rather reluctant to speak of it. 0, there was some 
foolish story, they believed ; they did not well know what it was. 

The picturesque age of human childhood is gone by ; men and women 
cannot always be so accommodating as to believe unreasonable stories for 
the convenience of poets. 

At the Tweed the man with the skiff was waiting for us. In parting 
with my friend, I said, “ Farewell. I hope we may meet again some time.” 

“I am sure we shall, madam,” said lie; “if not here, certainly here¬ 
after.” 

After being rowed across I stopped a few moments to admire the rippling 
of the clear water over the pebbles. ‘ ‘ I want some of these pebbles of the 
Tweed,” I said, “to carry home to America.” Two hearty, rosy-cheeked 
Scotch lasses on the shore soon supplied me with as many as I could carry. 

We got into our carriage, and drove up to Melrose. After a little nego¬ 
tiation with the keeper, the doors were unlocked. Just at that moment the 
sun was so gracious as to give a full look through the windows, and touch 
with streaks of gold the green, grassy floor; for the beautiful ruin is floored 
with green grass and roofed with sky : even poetry has not exaggerated its 
beauty, and could not. There is never any end to the charms of Gothic 
architecture. It is like the beauty of Cleopatra,— 

“ Age cannot wither, custom cannot stale, 

Her infinite variety." 

Here is this Melrose, now, which has been berhymed, bedraggled through 
infinite guide books, and been gaped at and smoked at by dandies, and been 
called a “ dear love” by pretty young ladies, and been hawked about as a 
trade article in all neighbouring shops, and you know perfectly well that all 
your raptures are spoken for and expected at the door, and your going off 
in an ecstasy is a regular part of the programme; and yet, after all, the 
sad, wild, sweet beauty of the thing comes down on one like a cloud ; even 
for the sake of being original you could not, in conscience, declare you did 
not admire it. 

We went into a minute examination with our guide, a young man, who 
seemed to have a full sense of its peculiar beauties. I must say here, that 
Walter Scott’s description in the Lay of the Last Minstrel is as perfect 
in most details as if it had been written by an architect as well as a poet— 
it is a kind of glorified daguerreotype. 

This building was the first of the elaborate and fanciful Gothic which I 
had seen, and is said to excel in the delicacy of its carving any except 




MELROSE. 73 

Eoslin Castle. As a specimen of tlie exactness of Scott’s description, take 
this verse, where he speaks of the cloisters :— 

“ Spreading herbs and flowerets bright. 

Glistened with the dew of night, 

Nor herb nor floweret glistened there, 

But were carved in the cloister arches as fair.” 

These cloisters were covered porticoes surrounding the garden, where the 
monks walked for exercise. They are now mostly destroyed, hut our guide 
showed us the remains of exquisite carvings there, in which each group was 
an imitation of some leaf or flower, such as the curly kail of Scotland; a 
leaf, by the by, as worthy of imitation as the Greek acanthus, the trefoil 
oak, and some other leaves, the names of which I do not remember. These 
Gothic artificers were lovers of nature; they studied at the fountain head; 
hence the never-dying freshness, variety, and originality of their con¬ 
ceptions. 

Another passage, whose architectural accuracy you feel at once, is this:— 

“ They entered now the chancel tall; 

The darkened roof rose high aloof 
On pillars lofty, light, and small: 

The keystone that locked each ribbed aisle 
Was a fleur-de-lis, or a quatre-feuille; 

The corbels were carved grotesque and grim j 
And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim. 

With base and with capital flourished around. 

Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound,” 

The quatre-feuille here spoken of is an ornament formed by the junction 
of four leaves. The frequent recurrence of the fleur-de-lis in the carvings 
here shows traces of French hands employed in the architecture. In one 
place in the abbey there is a rude inscription, in which a French architect 
commemorates the part he has borne in constructing the building. 

These corbels are the projections from which the arches spring, usually 
carved in some fantastic mask or face; and on these the Shakspearian 
imagination of the Gothic artists seems to have let itself loose to run riot; 
there is every variety of expression, from the most beautiful to the most 
goblin and grotesque. One has the leer of fiendish triumph, with budding 
horns, showing too plainly his paternity; again you have the drooping eye¬ 
lids and saintly features of some fair virgin; and then the gasping face of 
some old monk, apparently in the agonies of death, with his toothless 
gums, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes. Other faces have an earthly and 
sensual leer; some are wrought into expressions of scorn and mockery, 
some of supplicating agony, and some of grim despair. 

One wonders what gloomy, sarcastic, poetic, passionate mind has thus 
amused itself, recording in stone all the range of passions—saintly, earthly, 
and diabolical—on the varying human face. One fancies each corbel to 
have had its history, its archetype in nature; a thousand possible stories 
spring into one’s mind. They are wrought with such a startling and in¬ 
dividual definiteness, that one feels as about Shakspeare’s characters, as if 
they must have had a counterpart in real existence. The pure, saintly 
nun may have been some sister, or some daughter, or some early love, of the 
artist, who in an evil hour saw the convent barriers rise between her and 
all that was loving. The fat, sensual face may have been a sly sarcasm on 
some worthy abbot, more eminent in flesh than spirit. The fiendish faces 
may have been wrought out of the author’s own perturbed dreams. 





SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


7 4 

An architectural work says that one of these corbels, with an anxious 
and sinister Oriental countenance, has been made, by the guides, to perform 
duty as an authentic likeness of the wizard Michael Scott. Now, I must 
earnestly protest against stating things in that way. Why does a writer 
want to break up so laudable a poetic design in the guides ? He would 
have been much better occupied in interpreting some of the half-defaced old 
inscriptions into a corroborative account. No doubt it was Michael Scott, 
and looked just like him. 

It were a fine field for a story writer to analyze the conception and 
growth of an abbey or cathedral as it formed itself, day after day, and year 
after year, in the soul of some dreamy, impassioned workman, who made it 
the note-book where he wrought out imperishably in stone all his observa¬ 
tions on nature and man. I think it is this strong individualism of the 
architect in the buildings that gives the never-dying charm and variety to 
the Gothic: each Gothic building is a record of the growth, character, and 
individualities of its builder’s soul; and hence no two can be alike. 

I was really disappointed to miss in the abbey the stained glass which 
gives such a lustre and glow to the poetic description. I might have 
known better ; but somehow I came there fully expecting to see the window, 
where,— 

“Full in the midst his cross of red 
Triumphant Michael brandished; 

The moonbeam kissed the holy pane, 

And threw on the pavement the bloody stain.” 

Alas! the painted glass was all of the poet’s own setting; years ago it 
was shattered by the hands of violence, and the grace of the fashion of it 
hath perished. 

The guide pointed to a broken fragment which commanded a view of the 
whole interior. “ Sir Walter used to sit here,” he said. I fancied I could 
see him sitting on the fragment, gazing around the ruin, and mentally 
restoring it to its original splendour; he brings back the coloured light into 
the windows, and throws its many-hued reflections over the graves; he 
ranges the banners along around the walls, and rebuilds every shattered 
arch and aisle, till we have the picture as it rises on us in his book. 

I confess to a strong feeling of reality, when my guide took me to a grave 
where a flat, green, mossy stone, broken across the middle, is reputed to be 
the grave of Michael Scott. I felt, for the moment, verily persuaded that 
if the guide would pry up one of the stones we should see him there, as 
described:— 

“ His hoary beard in silver rolled, 

He seemed some seventy winters old; 

A palmer’s amice wrapped him round. 

With a wrought Spanish baldric bound. 

Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea: 

His left hand held his book of might; 

A silver cross was in his right; 

The lamp was placed beside his knee: 

High and majestic was his look, 

At which the fellest fiends had shook. 

And all unruffled was his face : 

They trusted his soul had gotten grace.” 

I never knew before how fervent a believer I had been in the realities of 
these things. 


MELROSE. 75 

There are two graves that I saw, which correspond to those mentioned 
in these lines :— 


“ Aud there the dying lamps did burn 
Before thy lone and lowly urn, 

O gallant chief of Otterburne, 

And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale.” 

The Knight of Otterburne was one of the Earls Douglas, killed in a 
battle with Henry Percy, called Hotspur, in 1388. The Knight of Lid- 
desdale was another Douglas, who lived in the reign of David II., and was 
called the “Flower of Chivalry.” One performance of this “Flower” is 
rather characteristic of the times. It seems the king made one Ramsey 
high sheriff of Teviotdale. The Earl of Douglas chose to consider this as 
a personal affront, as he wanted the office himself. So, by way of exhibit¬ 
ing his own qualifications for administering justice, he one day came down 
on Ramsey, vi et armis, took him off his judgment-seat, carried him to 
one of his castles, and without more words tumbled him and his horse into 
a deep dungeon, where they both starved to death. There’s a “Flower” 
for you, peculiar to the good old times. Nobody could have doubted after 
this his qualifications to be high sheriff. 

Having looked all over the abbey from below, I noticed a ruinous wind¬ 
ing staircase ; so up I went, rustling along through the ivy, which matted 
and wove itself around the stones. Soon I found myself looking down on 
the abbey from a new point of view—from a little narrow stone gallery, 
which threads the whole inside of the building. There I paced up and 
down, looking occasionally through the ivy-wreathed arches on the green, 
turfy floor below. 

It seems as if silence and stillness had become a real presence in these 
old places. The voice of the guide and the company beneath had a 
hushed and muffled sound ; and when I rustled the ivy-leaves, or in trying 
to break off a branch, loosened some fragment of stone, the sound affected 
me with a startling distinctness. I could not but inly muse and wonder on 
the life these old monks and abbots led, shrined up here as they were in 
this lovely retirement. 

In ruder ages these places were the only retreat for men of a spirit too 
gentle to take force and bloodshed for their life’s work ; men who believed 
that pen and parchment were better than sword and steel. Here I suppose 
multitudes of them lived harmless, dreamy lives—reading old manuscripts, 
copying and illuminating new ones. 

It is said that this Melrose is of very ancient origin, extending back to 
the time of the Culclees, the earliest missionaries who established religion 
in Scotland, and who had a settlement in this vicinity. However, a royal 
saint, after a while, took it in hand to patronize, and of course the credit 
went to him, and from him Scott calls it “St. David’s lonely pile.” In 
time a body of Cistercian monks were settled there. 

According to all accounts the abbey has raised some famous saints. We 
read of trances, illuminations, and miraculous beatifications ; and of one 
abbot in particular, who exhibited the odour of sanctity so strongly that it is 
said the mere opening of his grave, at intervals, was sufficient to perfume 
the whole establishment with odours of paradise. Such stories apart, 
however, we must consider that for all the literature, art, and love of the 



SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


7(3 

beautiful, all tlie humanizing influences which hold society together, the 
world was for many ages indebted to these monastic institutions. 

In the reformation this abbey was destroyed amid the general storm 
which attacked the ecclesiastical architecture of Scotland. “ Pull down 
the nest, and the rooks will fly away, ” was the common saying of the mob; • 
and in those days a man was famous according as he had lifted up axes 
upon the carved work. 

Melrose was considered for many years merely a stone quarry, from 
which materials were taken for all sorts of buildings, such as constructing 
tolbooths, repairing mills and sluices ; and it has been only till a com¬ 
paratively recent period that its priceless value as an architectural remain 
has led to proper efforts for its preservation. It is now most carefully 
kept. 

After wandering through the inside we walked out into the old grave¬ 
yard, to look at the outside. The yard is full of old, curious, mouldering 
gravestones ; and on one of them there is an inscription sad and peculiar 
enough to have come from the heart of the architect who planned the abbey; 
it runs as follows :— 

** The earth walks on the earth, glittering with gold; 

The earth goes to the earth sooner than it wold; 

The earth builds on the earth castles and towers; 

The earth says to the earth, All 3hall be ours.” 

Here, also, we were interested in a plain marble slab, which marks 
the last resting-place of Scott’s faithful Tom Purdie, his zealous facto¬ 
tum. In his diary, when he hears of the wreck of his fortunes, Scott 
says of this serving man, ‘ ‘ Poor Tom Purdie, such news will wring your 
heart, and many a poor fellow’s beside, to whom my prosperity was daily 
bread.” 

One fancies again the picture described by Lockhart, the strong lank 
frame, hard features, sunken eyes, and grizzled eyebrows, the green jacket, 
white hat, and gray trousers—the outer appointments of the faithful serv¬ 
ing man. One sees Scott walking familiarly by his side, staying himself 
on Tom’s shoulder, while Tom talks with glee of “ our trees,” and “ our 
bukes.” One sees the little skirmishing, when master wants trees planted 
one way and man sees best to plant them another ; and the magnanimity 
with which kindly, cross-grained Tom at last agrees, on reflection, to 
“ take his honour’s advice” about the management of his honour’s own 
property. Here, between master and man, both free men, is all that 
beauty of relation sometimes erroneously considered as the peculiar charm 
of slavery. Would it have made the relation any more picturesque and 
endearing had Tom been stripped of legal rights, and made liable to sale 
with the books and furniture of Abbotsford ? Poor Tom is sleeping here 
very quietly, with a smooth coverlet of green grass. Over him is the 
following inscription: “Here lies the body of Thomas Purdie, wood 
forester at Abbotsford, who died 29th October, 1829, aged sixty-two 
years. ‘ Thou hast been faithful over a few things ; I will make thee ruler 
over many things.’—Matt. xxv. 21.” 

We walked up, and down, and about, getting the best views of the 
building. It is scarcely possible for description to give you the picture. 
The artist in wlmse mind the conception of this building arose, was a 
Mozart in architecture ; a plaintive and ethereal lightness, a fanciful 












MELROSE, 


77 

quaintness, pervaded his composition. The building is not a large one, 
and it has not that air of solemn massive grandeur, that* plain majesty, 
which impresses you in the cathedrals of Aberdeen and Glasgow. As you 
stand looking at the wilderness of minarets and Hying buttresses, the mul¬ 
tiplied shrines, and mouldings, and cornices, all incrusted with carving as 
endless in its variety as the frost work on a window pane ; each shrine, 
each pinnace, each moulding, a study by itself, yet each contributing, like 
the different strains of a harmony, to the general effect of the whole ; it 
seems to you that for a thing so airy and spiritual to have sprung up by 
enchantment, and to have been the product of spells and fairy fingers, is 
no improbable account of the matter. 

Speaking of gargoyles—you are no architect, neither am I, but you may 
as well get used to this descriptive term; it means the water-spouts which 
conduct the water from the gutters at the eaves of these buildings, and 
which are carved in every grotesque and fanciful device that can be imagined. 
They are mostly goblin and fiendish faces, and look as if they were darting 
out of the church in a towering passion, or a fit of diabolic disgust and 
malice. Besides these gargoyles, there are in many other points of the ex¬ 
ternal building representations of fiendish faces and figures, as if in the act 
of flying from the building, under the influence of a terrible spell: by this, 
as my guide said, was expressed the idea that the holy hymns and worship 
of the church put Satan and all his forces to rout, and made all that was 
evil flee. 

One remark on this building, in Billings’s architectural account of it, in¬ 
terested me; and that is, that it is finished with the most circumstantial 
elegance and minuteness in those concealed portions which are excluded 
from public view, and which can only be inspected by laborious climbing or 
groping; and he accounts for this by the idea that the whole carving and 
execution was considered as an act of solemn worship and adoration, in 
which the artist offered up his best facilities to the praise of the Creator. 

After lingering a while here, we Avent home to our inn or hotel. Now, 
these hotels in the small towns of England, if this is any specimen, are 
delightful affairs for travellers, they are so comfortable and home-like. 
Our snug little parlour was radiant with the light of the coal grate; our 
table stood before it, with its bright silver, w r hite cloth, and delicate china 
cups; and then such a dish of mutton chops ! My dear, we are all mortal, 
and emotions of the beautiful and sublime tend especially to make one 
hungry. We, therefore, comforted ourselves over the instability of earthly 
affairs, and the transitory nature of all human grandeur, by consolatory 
remarks on the present whiteness of the bread, the sweetness of the butter; 
and as to the chops, all declared, with one voice, that such mutton was a 
thing unknown in America. I moved an emendation, except on the sea-coast 
of Maine. We resolved to cherish the memory of our little hostess in our 
heart of hearts; and, as we gathered round the cheery grate, drying our 
cold feet, we voted that poetry was a humbug, and damp, old, musty 
cathedrals a bore. Such are the inconsistencies of human nature! 

“Nevertheless,” said I to S-, after dinner, “lam going back again 

to-night, to see that abbey by moonlight. I intend to walk the whole 
figure while I am about it.” 

Just on the verge of twilight I stepped out, to see what the town afforded 
in way of relics. To say the truth, my eye had been caught by some 



78 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

cunning little tubs and pails in a window, which I thought might be valued 
in the home department. I went into a shop, where an auld wife soon 
appeared, who, in reply to my inquiries, told me that the said little tubs 
and pails were made of plum tree wood from Dryburgh Abbey, and, of 
course, partook of the sanctity of relics. She and her husband seemed to 
be driving a thriving trade in the article, and either plum trees must be 
very abundant at Dryburgh, or what there are must be gifted with that 
power of self-multiplication which inheres in the wood of the true Cross. I 
bought them in blind faith, however, suppressing all rationalistic doubts, 
as a good relic-hunter should. 

I went up into a little room where an elderly woman professed to have 
quite a collection of the Melrose relics. Some years ago extensive restora¬ 
tions and repairs were made in the old abbey, in which Walter Scott took a 
deep interest. At that time, when the scaffolding was up for repairing the 
building, as I understood, Scott had the plaster-casts made of different 
parts, which he afterwards incorporated into his own dwelling at Abbots¬ 
ford. I said to the good woman that I had understood, by Washington 
Irving’s account, that Scott appropriated bona fide fragments of the build¬ 
ing, and alluded to the account which he gives of the little red sandstone 
lion from Melrose. She repelled the idea with great energy, and said she 
had often heard Sir Walter say that he would not carry off a bit of the 
building as big as his thumb. She showed me several plaster-casts that 
she had in her possession, which were taken at this time. There were 
several corbels there; one was the head of an old monk, and looked as if it 
might have been a mask taken of his face the moment after death ; the 
eyes were hollow and sunken, the cheeks fallen in, the mouth lying help¬ 
lessly open, showing one or two melancholy old stumps of teeth. I won¬ 
dered over this, whether it really was the fac-simile of some poor old Father 
Ambrose, or Father Francis, whose disconsolate look, after his death agony, 
had so struck the gloomy fancy of the artist as to lead him to immortalize 
him in a corbel, for a lasting admonition to his fat worldly brethren; for, 
if we may trust the old song, these monks of Melrose had rather a suspi¬ 
cious reputation in the matter of worldly conformity. The impudent 
ballad says,— 

“ O, tho monks of Melrose, they made good kail 
On Fridays, when they fasted ■, 

They never wanted beef or ale 
As long as their neighbours’ lasted.” 

Naughty, roistering fellows ! I thought I could perceive how this poor 
Father Francis had worn his life out exhorting them to repentance, and 
given up the ghost at last in despair, and so been made at once into a saint 
and a corbel. 

There were fragments of tracery, of mouldings and cornices, and gro¬ 
tesque bits of architecture there, which I would have given a good deal to 
be the possessor of. Stepping into a little cottage hard by to speak to the 
guide about unlocking the gates, when we went out on our moonlight ex¬ 
cursion at midnight, I caught a glimpse, in an inner apartment, of a 
splendid, large, black dog. I gave one exclamation and jump, and was into 
the room after him. , 

“Ah,” said the old man, “ that was just like Sir Walter; he always had 
an eye for a d^g.” 



MELROSE. 


70 

It ga\ c me a kind of pain to think of him and" ms dogs, all lying in the 
(lust together ; and yet it was pleasant to hear this little remark of him, as 
if it were made by those who had often seen, and were fond of thinking of 
him. The dog s name was Coal, and he was black enough, and remarkable 
enough, to make a figure in a story—a genuine Melrose Abbey dog. I 
should not Avonder if he were a descendant, in a remote degree, of the 
“ mauthe doog,” that supernatural beast, which Scott commemorates in 
his notes. The least touch in the world of such blood in his veins would 
be, of course, an appropriate circumstance in a dog belonging to an old 
ruined abbey. 

Well, I got home, and narrated my adventures to my friends, and 
showed them my reliquary purchases, and declared my strengthening in¬ 
tention to make my ghostly visit by moonlight, if there was any moon to be 
had that night, which was a doubtful possibility. 

In the course of the evening came in Mr.-, who had volunteered his 

services as guide and attendant during the interesting operation. 

“ When does the moon rise?” said one. 

“0, a little after eleven o’clock, I believe,” said Mr. •-. Some of 

the party gaped portentously. 

“You know,” said I, “Scott says we must see it by moonlight; it is 
one of the proprieties of the place, as I understand.” 

“ How exquisite that description is, of the effect of moonlight!” says 
another. 

“I think it probable,” says Mr. --, drily, “that Scott never saw it 

by moonlight himself. He was a man of very regular habits, and seldom 
went out evenings.” 

The blank amazement with which this communication was received set 
S-into an inextinguishable fit of laughter. 

“ But do you really believe he never saw it ?” said I, rather crestfallen. 

“Well,” said the gentleman, “I have heard him charged with never 
having seen it, and he never denied it.” 

Knowing that Scott really was as practical a man as Dr. Franklin, and 
as little disposed to poetic extravagances, and an exceedingly sensible, 
family kind of person, I thought very probably this might be true, unless 
he had seen it sometime in his early youth. Most likely good Mrs. Scott 
never would have let him commit the impropriety that we were about to, 
and run the risk of catching the rheumatism by going out to see how an 
old abbey looked at twelve o’clock at night. 

We waited for the moon to rise, and of course it did not rise; nothing 
ever does when it is waited for. We went to one window, and went to 
another; half-past eleven came, and no moon. “Let us give it up,” said 
I, feeling rather foolish. However, we agreed to wait another quarter of 

an houi', and finally Mr. --announced that the moon was risen; the 

only reason we did not see it was, because it was behind the Eildon Hills. 
So we voted to consider her risen at any rate, and started out in the dark, 
threading the narrow streets of the village with the comforting reflection 
that we were doing what Sir Walter would think rather a silly thing. 
When we got out before the abbey there was enough light behind the 
Eildon Hills to throw their three shadowy cones out distinctly to view, and 
to touch with a gloaming, uncertain ray the ivy-clad walls. As we stood 
before the abbey, the guide fumbling with his keys, and finally heard the 







80 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

old lock clash as the door slowly opened to admit us, I felt a little shiver ■ 
of the ghostly come over me, just enough to make it agreeable. 

In the daytime we had criticised Walter Scott’s moonlight description in 
the lines which say,— 

“ The distant Tweed is heard to rave, 

And the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave.” 

“We hear nothing of the Tweed, at any rate,” said we; “that must be 
a poetic licence.” But now at midnight, as we walked silently through the 
mouldering aisles, the brawl of the Tweed was so distinctly heard that it 
seemed as if it was close by the old, lonely pile; nor can any term describe 
the sound more exactly than the word “rave,” which the poet has chosen. 

It was the precise accuracy of this little item of description which made me 
feel as if Scott must have been here in the night. I walked up into the 
old chancel, and sat down where William of Deloraine and the monk sat, 
on the Scottish monarch’s tomb, and thought over the words 

“ Strange sounds along the chancel passed, 

And banners wave without a blast; 

Still spake the monk when the bell tolled one.” 

And while we were there the bell tolled twelve. 

And then we went to Michael Scott’s grave, and we looked through the 
east oriel, with its 

“ Slender shafts of shapely stone. 

By foliage tracery combined.” 

The fanciful outlines showed all the more distinctly for the entire dark¬ 
ness within, and the gloaming moonlight without. The tall arches seemed 
higher in their dimness and vaster than they did in the daytime. ‘‘ Hark !” 
said I; “ what’s that?” as we heard a rustling and flutter of wings in the 
ivy branches over our heads. Only a couple of rooks, whose antiquarian : 
slumbers were disturbed by the unwonted noise there at midnight, and 1 
who rose and flew away, rattling down some fragments of the ruin as they 
went. It was somewhat odd, but I could not help fancying, what if these 
strange, goblin rooks were the spirits of old monks coming back to nestle 
and brood among their ancient cloisters ! Rooks are a ghostly sort of bird. 

I think they were made on purpose to live in old yew trees and ivy, as ’ 
much as yew trees and ivy were to grow round old churches and abbeys. If 
we once could get inside of a rook’s skull, to find out what he is thinking 
of, I’ll warrant that we should know a great deal more about these old 
buildings than we do now. I should not wonder if there were long tradi- 
tionary histories handed down from one generation of rooks to another, and 
that these are what they are talking about when we think they are only 
chattering. I imagine I see the whole black fraternity the next day, sitting, 
one on a gargoyle, one on a buttress, another on a shrine, gossiping over 
the event of our nightly visit. 

We walked up and down the long aisles, and groped out into the clois¬ 
ters ; and then I thought, to get the full ghostliness of the thing, we would 
go up the old, ruined staircase into the long galleries, that 

“ Midway thread the abbey wall.” 

We got about half way up, when there came into our faces one of those 
sudden, passionate puffs of mist and rain which Scotch clouds seem to 
have the faculty of getting up at a minute’s notice. Whish! came the 






MELROSE. 


81 

wind in our faces, like the rustling of a whole army of spirits down the 
staircase; whereat we all tumbled back promiscuously ou to each other, 
and concluded we would not go up. In fact we had done the thing, 
and so we went home; and I dreamed of arches, and corbels, and gargoyles 
all night. And so, farewell to Melrose Abbey 


LETTER IX. 

DOUGLAS OP CAVERS.—TEMPERANCE SOIREE.—CALLS.—LORD GAINSEOROUGH.—Silt 

WILLI Ail HAMILTON. — GEORGE COMBE.—VISIT TO HAWTHORNDEN.— ROSLIN 

CASTLE.—THE QUAKERS. — HERVEY’S STUDIO.— GRASS MARKET. — GRAY FRIARS* 

CHURCHYARD. 

Edinburgh, April. 

Mr dear Sister:— 

Mr. S. and C-returned from their trip to Glasgow much delighted 

with the prospects indicated by the resuLs of the temperance meetings they 
attended there. 

They were present at the meeting of the Scottish Temperance League, in 
an audience of about four thousand people. The reports were encouraging, 
and the feeling enthusiastic. One hundred and eighty ministers are on the 
list of the League, forming a nucleus of able, talented, and determined 
operators. It is the intention to make a movement for a law which shall 
secure to Scotland some of the benefits of the Maine law. 

It appears to me that on the questions of temperance and antislavery, 
the religious communities of the two countries are in a situation mutually to 
benefit each other. Our church and ministry have been through a long 
struggle and warfare on this temperance question, in which a very valuable 
experience has been elaborated. The religious people of Great Britain, on 
the contrary, have led on to a successful result a great antislavery experi¬ 
ment, wherein their experience and success can be equally beneficial and 
encouraging to us. 

The day after we returned from Melrose we spent in resting and riding 
about, as we had two engagements in the evening—one at a party at the 
house of Mr. Douglas, of Cavers, and the other at a public temperance 
soiree. Mr. Douglas is the author of several works which have excited 
attention; but perhaps you will remember him best by his treatise on the 
Advancement of Society in Religion and Knowledge. He is what is called 
here a “laird,” a man of good family, a large landed proprietor, a zealous 
reformer, and a very devout man. 

We went early to spend a short time with the family. I was a little 
surprised, as I entered the hall, to find myself in the midst of a large circle 
of well-dressed men and women, who stood apparently waiting to receive 
us, and who bowed, courtesied, and smiled as we came in. Mrs. D. 
apologized to me afterwards, saying that those were the servants of the 
family, that they were exceedingly anxious to see me, and so she had 
allowed them all to come into the hall. They were so respectable in 
their appearance, and so neatly dressed, that I might almost have mis¬ 
taken them for visitors. 

We had a very pleasant hour or two with the family, which I enjoyed 
exceedingly. Mr. and Mrs. Douglas were full of the most considerate 
kindness, and some of the daughters had intimate acquaintances in America, 

a 





82 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

I enjoy these little glimpses mto family circles more than anything else; 
there is no warmth like fireside warmth. 

In the evening the rooms were filled. I should think all the clergymen 
of Edinburgh must have been there, for I was introduced to ministers 
without number.. The Scotch have a good many little ways that are like 
ours; they call their clergy ministers, as we do There were many persons 
from ancient families, distinguished in Scottish history both for rank and 
piety; among others, Lady Carstairs, Sir Henry Moncrief and lady. There 
was also the Countess of Gainsborough, one of the ladies of the queen’s 
household, a very beautiful woman with charming manners, reminding one 
of the line of Pope— 

“ Graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride.” 

I was introduced to Dr. John Brown, who is reckoned one of the best 
exegetical scholars in Europe He is small of stature, sprightly, and 
pleasant in manners, with a high, bald forehead, and snow-white hair. 

There were also many members of the faculty of the university. I 
talked a little with Dr. Guthrie, whom I described m a former letter. I 
told him that one thing which had been an agreeable disappointment to me 
was, the apparent cordiality between the members of the Free and the 
National church. He seemed to think that the wounds of the old conflict 
were, to a great extent, healed. He spoke in high terms of the Duchess of 
Sutherland, her affability, kindness, and considerateness for the poor. I 
forget from whom I received the anecdote, but somebody told me this other 
•—that, one of her servants having lost a relative, she had left a party 
where she was engaged, and gone in the plainest attire and quietest way to 
attend the funeral. It was remarked upon as showing her considerateness 
for the feelings of those in inferior positions. 

About nine o’clock we left to go to the temperance soiree. It was in the 
same place, and conducted in the same way, with the others which I have 
described. The lord provost presided, and one or two of the working men 
who spoke in the former soiree made speeches, and very good ones too. The 
meeting was greatly enlivened by the presence and speech of the jovial 
Lord Conynghame, who amused us all by the gallant manner in which he 
expressed the warmth of Scottish welcome towards “our American guests.” 
If it had been in the old times of Scottish hospitality, he said, he should 
have proposed a lumper three times three ; but as that could not be done 
in a temperance meeting, he proposed three cheers, in which he led off with 
a hearty good will. 

All that the Scotch people need now for the prosperity of their country 
is the temperance reformation ; and undoubtedly they will have it. They 
have good sense and strength of mind enough to work out whatever they 
choose. 

We went home tired enough. 

The next day we had a few calls to make, and an invitation from Lady 
Drummond to visit “ classic Hawthornden.” Accordingly, in the forenoon, 
Mr. S. and I called first on Lord and Lady Gainsborough ; though she is 
one of the queen’s household, she is staying here at Edinburgh, and the 
queen at Osborne. I infer, therefore, that the appointment includes no 
very onerous duties. The Earl of Gainsborough is the eldest- brother of 
Eev. Baptist W, Noel. 









SIR WILLIAM HAMILTON. 


83 


Lady Gainsborough is the daughter of the Earl of Roden, Avho is an. 
Irish lord of the very strictest Calvinistic persuasion. He is a devout 
man, and for many years, we were told, maintained a Calvinistic church of 
the English establishment in Paris. While Mr. S. talked with Lord Gains- 
borough, I talked with his lady and Lady Roden, who was present. Lady 
Gainsborough inquired about our schools for the poor, and how they were 
conducted. I reflected a moment, and then answered that we had no 
schools for the poor as such, but the common school was open alike to 
all classes.* 

In England and Scotland, in all classes, from the queen downward, no 
movements are so popular as those for the education and elevation of the 
poor ; one is seldom in company without hearing the conversation turn 
upon them. 

The conversation generally turned upon the condition of servants in 
America. I said that one of the principal difficulties in American house¬ 
keeping proceeded from the fact that there were so many other openings of 
profit that very few were found willing to assume the position of the ser¬ 
vant, except as a temporary expedient; in fact, that the whole idea of 
service was radically different, it being a mere temporary contract to render 
certain service, not differing \'ery essentially from the contract of the me¬ 
chanic or tradesman. The ladies said they thought there could be no 
family feeling among servants if that was the case; and I replied that, 
generally speaking, there was none; that old and attached family servants 
in the free states were rare exceptions. 

This, I know, must look, to persons in old countries, like a hard and dis¬ 
couraging feature of democracy. I regard it, however, as only a temporary 
difficulty. Many institutions among us are in a transition state. Gradually 
the whole subject of the relations of labour and the industrial callings will 
assume a new form in America, and though Ave shall never be able to com¬ 
mand the kind of service secured in aristocratic countries, yet we shall have 
that which will be as faithful and efficient. If domestic service can bo 
made as pleasant, profitable, and respectable as any of the industrial call¬ 
ings, it will soon become as permanent. 

Our next visit Avas to Sir William Hamilton and lady. Sir William is 
the able successor of Dugald Stewart and Dr. Brown in the chair of intel¬ 
lectual philosophy. His writings have had a wide circulation in America. 
He is a man of noble presence, though we were sorry to see that he was 
suffering from ill health. It seems to me that Scotland bears that rela¬ 
tion to England, with regard to metaphysical inquiry, that New England 
does to the rest of the United States. If one counts over the names of 
distinguished metaphysicians, the Scotch, as compared with the English, 
number three to one—Reid, Stewart, BroAvn, all Scotchmen. 

Sir William still writes and lectures. He and Mr. S. were soon dis¬ 
coursing on German, English, Scotch, and American metaphysics, while I 
was talking with Lady Hamilton and her daughters. After we came aAvay 
Mr. S. said, that no man living had so thoroughly understood and analyzed 


* Had I knoAvn all about New York and Boston which recent examinations have 
ilex eloped, I should have answered very differently. The fact is, that we in America 
can no longer congratulate ourselves on not having a degraded and miserable class in 
/>ur cities, and it will be seen to be necessary for us to arouse to the very same efforts 
which have been so successfully making in England. 






84 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


the German philosophy. He said that Sir William spoke of a call which 
he had received from Professor Park, of Andover, and expressed himself in 
high terms of his metaphysical powers. 

After that we went to call on George Combe, the physiologist. We found 
him and Mrs. Combe in a pleasant sunny parlour, where, among other 
objects of artistic interest, we saw a very fine engraving of Mrs. Siddons. 
I was not aware until after leaving that Mrs. Combe is her daughter. Mr. 
Combe, though somewhat advanced, seems full of life and animation, and 
conversed with a great deal of warmth and interest on America, where he 
made a tour some years since. Like other men who sympathize in our 
progress, he was sanguine in the hope that the downfall of slavery must 
come at no distant date. 

After a pleasant chat here we came home ; and after an interval of rest 
the carriage was at the door for Hawthornden. It is about seven miles from 
Edinburgh. It is a most romantic spot, on the banks of the river Esk, noAV 
the seat of Sir James Walker Drummond. Scott has sung in the ballad of 
the Gray Brother :— 

“Sweet are the paths, O, passing sweet. 

By Esk’s fair streams that run, 

O’er airy steep, through copse-woods deep, 

Impervious to the sun. 

“Who knows not Melville’s beechy grove, 

And Roslin’s rocky glen, 

Dalkeith, which all the virtues love. 

And classic Hawthornden?” 

“ Melville’s beechy grove” is an allusion to the grounds of Lord Melville, 
through which we drove on our way. The beech trees here are magnificent; 
fully equal to any trees of the sort which I have seen in our American forests, 
and they were in full leaf. They do not grow so high, but have more 
breadth and a wider sweep of branches ; on the whole they are well 
worthy of a place in song. 

I know in my childhood I often used to wish that I could live in a 
ruined castle ; and this Hawthornden would be the very beau ideal of one 
as a romantic dwelling-place. It is an old castellated house, perched on 
the airy verge of a precipice, directly over the beautiful river Esk, looking 
down one of the most romantic glens in Scotland. Part of it is in ruins, 
and, hung with wreaths of ivy, it seems to stand just to look picturesque. 
The house itself, with its quaint high gables, and grey antique walls, 
appears old enough to take you back to the times of William Wallace. It 
is situated within an hour’s walk of Roslin Castle and Chapel, one of the 
most beautiful and poetic architectural remains in Scotland. 

Our drive to the place was charming. It was a showery day; but every 
few moments the sun blinked out, smiling through the falling rain, and 
making the wet leaves glitter, and the raindrops wink at each other in the 
most sociable manner possible. Arrived at the house, our friend, Miss 

S-, took us into a beautiful parlour overhanging the glen, each window 

of which commanded a picture better than was ever made on canvas. 

We had a little chat with Lady Drummond, and then we went down to 
examine the caverns—for there are caverns under the house, with long 
galleries and passages running from them through the rocks, some way 
down the river. Several apartments are hollowed out here in the rock on 
which the house is founded, which they told us belonged to Bruce; the 




HAWTHORNDEIT. 


85 

tradition being, that he was hidden here for some months. There was 
his bed room, dining room, sitting room, and a very curious apartment 
where the walls wei'e all honeycombed into little pai'titions, which they 
called his library, these little partitions being his book shelves. There 
are small loophole windows in these apartments, where you can look up 
and down the glen, and enjoy a magnificent prospect. For my part, I 
thought if I were Bruce, sitting there with a book in my lap, listening to 
the gentle brawl of the Esk, looking up and down the glen, watching the 
shaking rain drops on the oaks, the birches, and beeches, I should have 
thought that was better than fighting, and that my pleasant little cave was 
as good an arbour on the Hill Difficulty as ever mortal man enjoyed. 

There is a ponderous old two-handed sword kept here, said to have 
belonged to Sir William Wallace. It is considerably shorter than it wa3 
originally, but, resting on its point, it reached to the chin of a good six 
foot gentleman of our party. The handle is made of the horn of a sea¬ 
horse (if you know what that is), and has a heavy iron ball at the end. 
It must altogether have weighed some ten or twelve pounds. Think of a 
man hewing away on men with this ! 

There is a well in this cavern, down which we were directed to look and 
observe a hole in the side; this we were told was the entrance to another 
set of caverns and chambers under those in which we were, and to passages- 
which extended down and opened out into the valley. In the olden days 
the approach to these caverns was not through the house, but through the 
side of a deep well sunk in the court-yard, which communicates through a 
subterranean passage with this well. Those seeking entrance were let 
down by a windlass into the well in the court-yard, and drawn up by a 
windlass into this cavern. There was no such accommodation at present, 
but we were told some enterprising tourists had explored the lower caverns. 
Pleasant kind of times those old days must have been, when houses had to 
be built like a rabbit burrow, with all these accommodations for conceal¬ 
ment and escape. 

After exploring the caverns we came up into the parlours again, and 
Miss S. showed me a Scottish album, 1 in which were all sorts of sketches, 
memorials, autographs, and other such matters. What interested me 
more, she was making a collection of Scottish ballads, words and tunes. I 
told her that I had noticed, since I had been in Scotland, that the young 
ladies seemed to take very little interest in the national Scotch airs, and 
were all devoted to Italian; moreover, that the Scotch ballads and 
memories, which so interested me, seemed to have very little interest for 
people generally in Scotland. Miss S. was warm enough in her zeal to 
make up a considerable account, and so we got on well together. 

While we were sitting, chatting, two young ladies came in, who had 
walked up the glen despite the showery day. They were protected by 
good, substantial outer garments, of a kind of shag or plush, and so did not 
fear the rain. I wanted to walk down to Roslin Castle, but the party told 
me there would not be time this afternoon, as we^should have to return at 
a certain hour. I should not have been reconciled to this, had not another 
excursion been proposed for the purpose of exploring Roslin. 

However, I determined to go a little way down the glen, and get a 
distant view of it, and my fair friends, the young ladies, offered to accom« 
pany me ; so off we started down the winding paths, which were cut among 


86 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


the hanks overhanging the Esk. The ground was starred over with 
patches of pale-yellow primroses, and for the first time I saw the heather, 
spreading over rocks and matting itself round the roots of the trees. My 
companions, to whom it was the commonest thing in the world, could 
hardly appreciate the delight which I felt in looking at it; it was not in 
flower; I believe it does not blossom till some time in July or August. 
"We have often seen it in greenhouses, and it is so hardy that it is singular 
it will not grow wild in America. 

We walked, ran, and scrambled to an eminence which commanded a 
view of Roslin Chapel, the only view, I fear, which will ever gladden my 
eyes, for the promised expedition to it dissolved itself into mist. When on 
the hill top, so that I could see the chapel at a distance, I stood thinking 
over the ballad of Harold, in the Lay of the Last Minstrel, and the fate of the 
lovely Rosabel, and saying over to myself the last verses of the ballad:— 

“O’er Roslin, all tliat dreary night, 

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 

'Twas broader than the watchfire’s light. 

And redder than the bright moonbeam, 

“It glared on Roslin’s castle rock, 

It ruddied all the copsewood glen; 

’Twas seen from Deyden’s groves of oak, 

And seen fromcavern’d Hawthornden. 

“ Seemed all on fire that chapel proud, 

Where Roslin’s chiefs uncofiined lie. 

Each baron, for a sable shroud. 

Sheathed in his iron panoply. 

“Seemed all on fire within, aronnd. 

Deep sacristy and altars pale; 

Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 

And glimmered all the dead men’s mail, 

“ Blazed battlement and pinuet high, 

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair, 

So wall they blaze, when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high St. Clair. 

“There are twenty cf Roslin’s barons bold 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle; 

Each one the holy vault doth hold; 

But the sd& holds lovely Rosabelle! 

“And each St. Clair was buried there, 

With candle, with book, and with knell; 

But the sea caves rung, and the wild winds sung, 

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.” 

There are many allusions in this which show Scott’s minute habits of 
observation ; for instance, these two lines:— 

“Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair.” 

.Every buttress, battlement, and projection of the exterior is incrusted 
with the most elaborate floral and leafy carving, among which the rose is 
often repeated, from its suggesting, by similarity of sound, Roslin. 

Again, this line— 

“ Shone every pillar foliage-bound”— 

suggests to the mind the profusion and elaborateness of the leafy decora¬ 
tions in the inside. Among these, one pillar, garlanded with spiral 



EOSLIN CASTLE. 


87 

wreaths of carved foliage, is called the “ Apprentice’s Pillarthe tradition 
being, that while the master was gone to Rome to get some further hints on 
executing the plan, a precocious young mason, whom he left at home, com¬ 
pleted it in his absence. The master builder summarily knocked him on 
the head, as a warning to all progressive young men not to grow wiser 
than their teachers. Tradition points out the heads of the master and 
workmen among the corbels. So you see, whereas in old Greek times 
people used to point out their celebrities among the stars, and gave a de¬ 
funct hero a place in the constellations, in the middle ages he only got a 
place among the corbels. 

_ I am increasingly sorry that I was beguiled out of my personal examina¬ 
tion of this chapel, since I have seen the plates of it in my Baronial 
Sketches. It is the rival of Melrose, but more elaborate ; in fact, it is a 
perfect cataract of architectural vifacity and ingenuity, as defiant of any 
rules of criticism and art as the leaf-embowered arcades and arches of our 
American forest cathedrals. From the comparison of the plates of the 
engravings, I should judge there was less delicacy of taste, and more 
exuberance of invention, than in Melrose. One old prosaic commentator on 
it says that it is quite remarkable that there are no two cuts in it precisely 
alike; each buttress, window, and pillar is unique, though with such a 
general resemblance to each other as to deceive the eye. 

It was built in 1446, by William St. Clair, who was Prince of Orkney, 
Duke of Oldenburgh, Lord of Roslin, Earl of Caithness and Strathearn, and 
so on ad infinitum. He was called the “Seemly St. Clair,” from his 
noble deportment and elegant manners ; resided in royal splendour at this 
Castle of Roslin, and kept a court there as Prince of Orkney. His table 
was served with vessels of gold and silver, and he had one lord for his 
master of household, one for his cup bearer, and one for his carver, His 
princess, Elizabeth Douglas, was served by seventy-five gentlewomen, fifty- 
three of whom were daughters of noblemen, and they were attended in all 
their excursions by a retinue of two hundred gentlemen. 

These very woods and streams, which now hear nothing but the murmurs 
of the Esk, were all alive with the bustle of a court m those days. 

The castle was now distinctly visible; it stands on an insulated rock, 
two hundred and twenty yards from the chapel. It has under it a set of 
excavations and caverns almost equally curious with those of Hawthornden; 
there are still some tolerably preserved rooms in it, and Mrs. W. informed 
me that they had once rented these rooms for a summer residence. What 
a delightful idea! The barons of Roslin were all buried under this chapel, 
in their armour, as Scott describes in the poem. And as this family were 
altogether more than common folks, it is perfectly credible that on the 
death of one of them a miraculous light should illuminate the castle, chapel, 
and whole neighbourhood. 

It appears, by certain ancient documents, that this high and mighty 
house of St. Clair were in a particular manner patrons of the masonic craft. 
It is known that the trade of masonry was then in the hands of a secret 
and mysterious order, from whom probably our modern masons have 
descended. 

The St. Clair family, it appears, were at the head of this order, with 
power to appoint officers and places of meeting, to punish transgressors, 
and otherwise to have the superintendence of all their affairs. This fact 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


88 

may account for such a perfect Geyser of architectural ingenuity as has 
been poured out upon their family chapel, which was designed for a chef- 
d’oeuvre, a concentration of the best that could be done to the honour of 
their patron’s family. The documents which authenticate this statement 
are described in Billing’s “Baronial Antiquities.” So much for “the 
lordly line of high St. Clair.” 

When we came back to the house, and after taking coffee in the drawing¬ 
room, Miss S. took me over the interior, a most delightful place, full of all 
sorts of out-of-the-way snuggeries, and comfortable corners, and poetic 
irregularities. There she showed me a picture of one of the eai'ly ancestors 
of the family, the poet Drummond, hanging in a room which tradition has 
assigned to him. It represents a man with a dark, Spanish-looking face, 
with the broad Elizabethan ruff, earnest, melancholy eyes, and an air half 
cavalier, half poet, bringing to mind the chivalrous, graceful, fastidious 
bard, accomplished scholar, and courtier of his time, the devout believer in 
the divine right of kings, and of the immunities and privileges of the upper 
class generally. This Drummond, it seems, was early engaged to a fair 
young lady, whose death rendered his beautiful retreat of Hawthornden 
insupportable to him, and of course, like other persons of romance, he 
sought refuge in foreign travel, went abroad, and remained eight years. 
Afterwards he came back, married, and lived here for some time. 

Among other traditions of the place, it is said that Ben Jonson once 
walked all the way from London to visit the poet in this retreat; and a 
tree is still shown in the grounds under which they are said to have met. 
It seems that Ben’s habits were rather too noisy and convivial to meet 
altogether the taste of his fastidious and aristocratic host; and so he had 
his own thoughts of him, which, being written down in a diary, were pub¬ 
lished by some indiscreet executor, after they were both dead. 

We were shown an old, original edition of the poems. I must confess I 
never read them. Since I have seen the material the poet and novelist has 
on this ground, all I Avonder at is, that there have not been a thousand 
poets to one. I should have thought they would have been as plenty as 
the mavis and merle, and sprouting out everywhere, like the primroses and 
heather bells. 

Our American literature is unfortunate in this respect—that our nation 
never had any childhood, our day never had any dawn; so we have very 
little traditionary lore to work over. 

We came home about five o’clock, and had some company in the evening. 
Some time to-day I had a little chat with Mrs. W. on the Quakers. She 
is a cultivated and thoughtful woman, and seemed to take quite impartial 
views, and did not consider her own sect as by any means the only form of 
Christianity, but maintained—what every sensible person must grant, I 
think—that it has had an important mission in society, even in its pecu¬ 
liarities. I inferred from her conversation that the system of plain dress, 
maintained with the nicety which they always use, is by no means a saving 
in a pecuniary point of view. She stated that one young friend, who had 
been brought up in this persuasion, gave it as her reason for not adopting 
its peculiar dress, that she could not afford it; that is to say, that for a 
given sum of money she could make a more creditable appearance were she 
allowed the range of form, shape, and trimming, which the ordinary style 
of dressing permits. 




THE QUAKERS. 89 

I think almost any lady, who knows the magical value of bits of trim¬ 
ming, and bows of ribbon judiciously adjusted in critical locations, of in¬ 
serting, edging, and embroidery, considered as economic arts, must acknow¬ 
ledge that there is some force in the young lady’s opinion. Nevertheless 
the Doric simplicity of a Quaker lady’s dress, who is in circumstances to 
choose her material, has a peculiar charm. As at present advised, the 
Quaker ladies whom I have seen very judiciously adhere to the spirit of 
plain attire, without troubling themselves to maintain the exact letter. For 
instance, a plain straw cottage, with its white satin ribbon, is sometimes 
allowed to take the place of the close silk bonnet of Fox’s day. 

For my part, while I reverence the pious and unworldly spirit which 
dictated the peculiar forms of the Quaker sect, I look for a higher deve¬ 
lopment of religion still, when all the beautiful artistic faculties of the 
soul being wholly sanctified and offered up to God, we shall no longer shun 
beauty in any of its forms, either in dress or household adornment, as a 
temptation, but rather offer it up as a sacrifice to Him who has set us the 
example, by making every thing beautiful in its season. 

As to art and letters, I find many of my Quaker friends sympathising in 
those judicious views which were taken by the Society of Friends in Phila¬ 
delphia, when Benjamin West developed a talent for painting, regarding 
such talent as an indication of the will of Him who had bestowed it. So 
I find many of them taking pleasure in the poetry of Scott, Longfellow, and 
Whittier, as developments of his wisdom who gives to the human soul its 
different faculties and inspirations. 

More delightful society than a cultivated Quaker family cannot be 
found : the truthfulness, genuineness, and simplicity of character, albeit not 
wanting, at proper times, a shrewd dash of worldly wisdom, are very 
refreshing. 

Mrs. W. and I went to the studio of Hervey, the Scotch artist. Both he 
and his wife received us with great kindness. I saw there his Covenanters 
celebrating the Lord’s Supper—a picture which I could not look at critically 
on account of the tears which kept blinding my eyes. It represents a bleak 
hollow of a mountain side, where a few trembling old men and women, a 
few young girls and children, with one or two young men, are grouped toge¬ 
ther, in that moment of hushed prayeifful repose which precedes the bi'eak- 
ing of the sacramental bread. There is something touching always about 
that worn, weai'y look of rest and comfort with which a sick child lies down 
on a mother’s bosom, and like this is the expression with which these hunted 
fugitives nestle themselves beneath the shadow of their Bedeemer; mothers 
who had seen their sons “ tortured, not accepting delivei'ance”—wives who 
had seen the blood of their husbands poured out on their doorstone—- 
children with no father but God—and bereaved old men, from whom every 
child had been rent—all gathering for comfox-t round the cross of a suffering 
Loi-d. In such hours they found strength to suffer, and to say to every 
allurement of worldly sense and pleasure as the drowning Margaret Wilson 
said to the tempters in her hour of martyrdom, “I am Christ's child— 
let me go.” 

Another most touching picture of Ileiwey’s commemorates a later scene 
of Scottish devotion and martyr endui’ance scarcely below that of the days 
of the Covenant. It is called Leaving the Manse. 

We in America all felt to our heart’s core a sympathy with that high 


90 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

endurance which led so many Scottish ministers to forsake their churches, 
their salaries, the happy homes where their children were born and their 
days passed, rather than violate a principle. 

This picture is a monument of this struggle. There rises the manse 
overgrown with its flowering vines,-dhe image of a lovely, peaceful home. 
The minister’s wile, a pale, lovely creature, is just locking the door, out of 
which her husband and family have passed—leaving it for ever. The hus¬ 
band and father is supporting on his arm an aged, feeble mother, and the 
weeping children are gathering sorrowfully round him, each bearing away 
some memorial of their home ; one has the birdcage. But the unequalled 
look of high, unshaken patience, ot heroic faith, and love which seems to 
spread its light over every face, is what I cannot paint. The painter told 
me that the faces were portraits , and the scene by no means imaginary. 

But did not these sacrifices bring with them, even in their bitterness, a 
joy the world knoweth not ? Yes, they did. I know it full well, not 
vainly did Christ say, There is no man that hath left houses or lands for 
my sake and the gospel’s but he shall receive manifold more in this life. 

Mr. Hervey kindly gave me the engraving of his Covenanter’s Sacrament, 
wdiicli I shall keep as a memento of him and of Scotland. 

His style of painting is forcible and individual He showed us the 
studies that he has taken with his palette and brushes out on the moun¬ 
tains and moors of Scotland, painting moss, and stone, and brook, just as it 
is. This is the way to be a national painter. 

One pleasant evening, not long before we left Edinburgh, C., S., and I 
walked out for a quiet stroll. We went through the Grass Market, where 
so many defenders of the Covenant have suffered, and turned into the 
churchyard of the Gray Friars ; a gray, old Gothic building, with multi¬ 
tudes of graves around it. Here we saw the tombs of Allan Ramsay and 
many other distinguished characters. The grim, uncouth sculpture on the 
old graves, and the quaint epitaphs, interested me much , but I was most 
moved by coming quite unexpectedly on an ivy-grown slab, in the wall, 
commemorating the martyrs of the Covenant. The inscription struck me 
so much, that I got C--to copy it in his memorandum book. 

“Halt, passenger! take heed what you do see. 

Here lies interred tlie dust of those who stood 
'Gainst perjury, resisting unto blood, 

Adhering to the Covenant, and laws 
Establishing the same; which was the cause 
Their lives were sacrificed unto the lust 
Of prelatists abjured, though here their dust 
Lies mixed with murderers and other crew 
Whom justice justly did to death pursue} 

But as for them, no cause was to be found 
Worthy of death, but only they were found 
Constant and steadfast, witnessing 
For the prerogatives of Christ their King; 

Which truths were sealed by famous Guthrie’s head. 

And all along to Mr. Renwick’s blood 
They did endure the wrath of enemies, 

Reproaches, torments, deaths, and injuries; 

But yet they’re those who from such troubles cam© 

And triumph now in glory with the Lamb. 

“ From May 27, 1661, when the Marquis of Argyle was beheaded, to February 17, 
1688, when James Renwiek suffered, there were some eighteen thousand one way or 
other murdered, of whom were executed at Edinburgh about one hundred noblemen 
ministers, and gentlemen, and others, noble martys for Christ.” 












Git ay feiaes chtjrchyaed. 


91 

Despite the roughness of the verse, there is a thrilling power in these 
lines. People in gilded houses, on silken couches, at ease among books, 
and friends, and literary pastimes, may sneer at the Covenanters; it is 
much easier to sneer than to die for truth and right, as they died. Whether 
they were right in all respects is nothing to the purpose; but it is to the 
purpose that in a crisis of their country’s history they upheld a great prin¬ 
ciple vital to her existence. Had not these men held up the heart of Scot¬ 
land, and kept alive the fire of liberty on her altars, the very literature 
which has been used to defame them could not have had its existence. The 
very literary celebrity of Scotland has grown out of their grave; for a vigo¬ 
rous and original literature is impossible, except to a strong, free, seif- 
respecting people. The literature of a people must spring from the sense 
of its nationality; and nationality is impossible without self-respect, and 
self-respect is impossible without liberty. 

It is one of the trials of our mortal state, one of the disciplines of our 
virtue, that the world’s benefactors and reformers are so often without form 
or comeliness. The very force necessary to sustain the conflict makes them 
appear unlovely; they “tread the wine-press alone, and of the people there 
is none with them.” The shrieks, the groans, and agonies of men wrestling 
in mortal combat are often not graceful or gracious ; but the comments that 
the children of the Puritans, and the children of the Covenanters, make on 
the ungraceful and severe elements which marked the struggles of their 
great fathers, are as ill-timed as if a son, whom a mother had just borne 
from a burning dwelling, should criticize the shrieks with which she sought 
him, and point out to ridicule the dishevelled hair and singed garments 
which show how she struggled for hi? life. But these are they which are 
“ sown in weakness, but raised in power; which are sown in dishonour, but 
raised in gloryeven in this world they will have their judgment day, and 
their names which went down in the dust like a gallant banner trodden in 
the mire, shall rise again all glorious in the sight of nations. 

The evening sky, glowing red, threw out the bold outline of the castle, 
and the quaint old edifices as they seemed to look down on us silently from 
their rocky heights, and the figure of Salisbury Crags marked itself against 
the red sky like a couchant lion. 

The time of our sojourn in Scotland had drawn towards its close. 
Though feeble in health, this visit to me has been full of enjoyment; full 
of lofty, but sad memories; full of sympathies and inspirations. I think 
there is no nobler land, and I pray Glod that the old seed here sown in blood 
and tears may never be rooted out of Scotland. 


LETTER X. 

BIRMINGHAM.—STRATFORn-ON-AVON. 

My dear H.:— 

It was a rainy, misty morning when I left my kind retreat and friends 
in Edinburgh. Considerate.as everybody had been about imposing on my 
time or strength, still you may well believe that I was much exhausted. 

We left Edinburgh, therefore, with the determination to plunge at once 
into some hidden and unknown spot, where we might spend two or three 
days quietly by ourselves ; and remembering your Sunday at Stratford-on- 
Avon, I proposed that we should go there. As Stratford, however, is off 



92 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

the railroad line we determined to accept the invitation, which was lying 
by us, from our friend Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, and take sanctuary 
with him. So we wrote on, intrusting him with the secret, and charging 
him on no account to let any one know of our arrival. 

Well in the rail car, we went whirling along by Preston Pans, where was 
fought the celebrated battle in which Colonel Gardiner was killed; by 
Dunbar, where Cromwell told his ai’my to “trust in God and keep their 
powder drythrough Berwick-on-the-Tweed and Newcastle-on-Tyne; by 
the old towers and gates of York, with its splendid cathedral; getting a 
view of Durham Cathedral in the distance. 

The country between Berwick and Newcastle is one of the greatest manu¬ 
facturing districts of England, and for smoke, smut, and gloom, Pittsburg 
and Wheeling bear no comparison to it. The English sky, always paler 
and cooler in its tints than ours, here seems to be turned into a leaden 
canopy; tall chimneys belch forth gloom and confusion ; houses, factories, 
fences, even trees and grass, look grim and sooty. 

It is true that people with immense wealth can live in such regions in 
cleanliness and elegance ; but how must it be with the poor ? I know of 
no one circumstance more unfavourable to moral purity than the necessity 
of being physically dirty. Our nature is so intensely symbolical, that 
where the outward sign of defilement becomes habitual, the inner is too apt 
to correspond. I am quite sure that before there can be an universal mil¬ 
lennium, trade must be pursued in such a way as to enable the working 
classes to realize something of beauty and purity in the circumstances of 
their outward life. 

I have heard there is a law before the British Parliament, whose opera¬ 
tion is designed to purify the air of England by introducing chimneys which 
shall consume all the sooty particles which now float about, obscuring the 
air and carrying defilement with them. May that day be hastened ! 

At Newcastle-on-Tyne and some other places various friends came out to 
meet us, some of wdiom presented us with most splendid bouquets of hot¬ 
house flowers. This region has been the seat of some of the most zealous 
and efficient antislavery operations in England. 

About night our cars whizzed into the depot at Birmingham ; but just 
before we came in a difficulty was started in the company. “ Mr. Sturge 
is to be there waiting for us, but he does not know us, and we don’t know 

him ; what is to be done ?” C- insisted that he should know him by 

instinct; and so after Ave reached the depot, Ave told him to sally out and 
try. Sure enough, in a feAv moments he pitched upon a cheerful, middle- 
aged gentleman, Avith a moderate but not decisive broad brim to his hat, 
and challenged him as Mr. Sturge; the result verified the truth that “ in¬ 
stinct is a great matter. ” In a feAv moments our neAv friend and ourselves 
were snugly encased in a fly, trotting off as briskly as ever Ave could to his 
place at Edgbaston, nobody a Avhit the wiser. You do not know how snug 
Ave felt to think we had done it so nicely. 

The carriage soon drove in upon a gravel walk, winding among turf, 
floAvers, and shrubs, Avhere Ave found opening to us another home as Avarm 
and kindly as the one AA r e had just left, made doubly interesting by the idea 
of entire privacy and seclusion. 

After retiring to our chambers to repair the ravages of travel, we united 
in the pleasant supper room, where the table Avas laid before a bright coal 



BIRMINGHAM. 


93 


fire: no unimportant feature this fire, I can assure you, in a raw cloudy 
evening. A glass door from the supper room opened into a conservatory, 
brilliant with pink and yellow azaleas, golden calceolarias, and a profusion 
of other beauties, whose names I did not know. 

The side tables were strewn with books, and the ample folds of the drab 
I curtains, let down over the windows, shut out the rain, damp, and chill. 
When we were gathered round the table, Mr. Sturge said that he had 
somewhat expected Elihu Burritt that evening, and we all hoped he would 
come. I must not omit to say, that the evening circle was made more 
attractive and agreeable in my eyes by the presence of two or three of the 
little people, who were blessed with the rosy cheek of English children. 

Mr. Sturge is one of the most prominent and efficient of the philan¬ 
thropists of modern days. An air of benignity and easy good nature veils 
and conceals in him the most unflinching perseverance and energy of pur¬ 
pose. He has for many years been a zealous advocate of the antislavery 
cause in England, taking up efficiently the work begun by Clarkson and 
Wilberforce. He, with a friend of the same denomination, made a journey 
at their own expense, to investigate the workings of the apprentice system, 
by which the act of immediate emancipation in the West Indies was for a 
while delayed. After his return he sustained a rigorous examination of 
seven days before a committee of the House of Commons, the result of 
which successfully demonstrated the abuses of that system, and its entire 
inutility for preparing either masters or servants for final emancipation. 
This evidence went as far as anything to induce Parliament to declare im¬ 
mediate and entire emancipation. 

Mr. Sturge also has been equally zealous and engaged in movements for 
the ignorant and perishing classes at home. At his own expense he has 
sustained a private Farm School for the reformation of juvenile offenders, 
and it has sometimes been found that boys, whom no severity and no 
punishment seemed to affect, have been entirely melted and subdued by the 
gentler measures here employed. He has also taken a very ardent and 
decided part in efforts for the extension of the principles of peace, being a 
warm friend and supporter of Elihu Burritt. 

The next morning it was agreed that we should take our drive to Strat¬ 
ford-on-Avon. As yet this shrine of pilgrims stands a little aloof from the 
bustle of modern progress, and railroad cars do not run whistling and 
whisking with brisk officiousness by the old church and the fanciful banks 
of the Avon. 

The country that we were to pass over was more peculiarly old English; 
that phase of old English which is destined soon to pass away, under the 
restless regenerating force of modern progress. 

Our ride along was a singular commixture of an upper and under current 
of thought. Deep down in our hearts we were going back to English days; 
the cumbrous, quaint, queer, old, picturesque times; the dim, haunted 
times between cock-crowing and morning; those hours of national childhood, 
when popular ideas had the confiding credulity, the poetic vivacity, and 
versatile life, which distinguish children from grown people. 

No one can fail to feel, in reading any of the plays of Shakspeare, that he 
was born in an age of credulity and marvels, and that the materials out of 
which his mind was woven were dyed in the grain, in the haunted springs 
pf tradition, It would have been as absolutely impossible for even himself, 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


04 


had lie been born in the daylight of this century, to have built those quaint, 
Gothic structures of imagination, and tinted them with their peculiar 
colouring of marvellousness and mystery, as for a modern artist to originate 
and execute the weird designs of an ancient cathedral. Both Gothic archi¬ 
tecture and this perfection of Gothic poetry were the springing and efflo¬ 
rescence of that age, impossible to grow again. They were the forest 
primeval; other trees may spring in their room, trees as mighty and as 
fair, but not such trees. 

So, as we rode along, our speculations and thoughts in the under current 
were back in the old world of tradition. While, on the other hand, for the 
upper current, we were keeping up a brisk conversation on the peace ques* 
tion, on the abolition of slavery, on the possibility of ignoring slave-grown 
produce, on Mr. Cobden and Mr. Bright, and, in fact, on all the most wide¬ 
awake topics of the present day. 

One little incident occurred upon the road. As we were passing by a 
quaint old mansion, which stood back from the road, surrounded by a deep 
court, Mr. S. said to me, “ There is a friend here who would like to see 
thee, if thou hast no objections,” and went on to inform me that she was an 
aged woman, who had taken a deep interest in the abolition of slavery since 
the time of its first inception under Clarkson and Wilberforce, though now 
lying very low on a sick bed. Of course we all expressed our willingness 
to stop, and the carriage was soon driving up the gravelled walk towards 
the house. We were ushered into a comfortable sitting-room, which looked 
out on beautiful grounds, where the velvet grass, tall, dark trees, and a 
certain quaint air of antiquity in disposition and arrangement, gave me a 
singular kind of pleasure; the more so, that it came to me like a dream ; 
that the house and the people were unknown to me, and the whole affair 
entirely unexpected. 

I was soon shown into a neat chamber, where an aged woman was lying 
in bed. I was very much struck and impressed by her manner of receiving 
me. With deep emotion and tears, she spoke of the solemnity and sacred¬ 
ness of the cause which had for years lain near her heart. There seemed to 
be something almost prophetic in the solemn strain of assurance with which 
she spoke of the final extinction of slavery throughout the world. 

I felt both pleased and sorrowful. I felt sorrowful because I knew, if all 
true Christians in America had the same feelings, that men, women, and 
children, for whom Christ died, would no more be sold in my country on 
the auction block. 

There have been those in America who have felt and prayed thus nobly 
and sincerely for the heathen in Burmah and Hindostan, and that sentiment 
was a beautiful and an ennobling one; but, alas ! the number has been few 
who have felt and prayed for the heathenism and shame of our own 
country; for the heathenism which sells the very members of the body of 
Christ as merchandise. 

When we were again on the road, we were talking on the change of times 
in England since railroads began; and Mr. S. gave an amusing description 
of how the old lords used to travel in state, with their coaches and horses, 
when they went up once a year on a solemn pilgrimage to London, with 
postilions and outriders, and all the country gaping and wondering after 
them. 

“i wonder,” said one of us, “if Shakspeare were living, what he would 






STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 


95 


say to our times, and what he would think of all the questions that are agi¬ 
tating the world now.” That he did have thoughts whose roots ran far 
beyond the depth of the age in which he lived, is plain enough from num¬ 
berless indications in his plays; but whether he would have taken any 
practical interest in the world’s movements is a fair question. The poetic 
» mind is not always the progressive one; it has, like moss and ivy, a need 
■ for something old to cling to and germinate upon. The artistic tempera¬ 
ment, too, is soft and sensitive; so there are all these reasons for thinking 
that perhaps he would have been for keeping out of the way of the heat and 
dust of modern progress. It does not follow because a man has penetration 
to see an evil, he has energy to reform it. 

Erasmus saw all that Luther saw just as clearly, but he said that he had 
rather never have truth at all, than contend for it with the world in such a 
tumult. However, on the other hand, England did, in Milton, have one 
poet who girt himself up to the roughest and stormiest work of reformation ; 
so it is not quite certain, after all, that Shalcspeare might not have been a 
reformer in our times. One thing is quite certain, that he would have said 
very shrewd things about all the matters that move the world now, as he 
certainly did about all matters that he was cognizant of m his own day. 

It was a little before noon when we drove into Stratford, by which time, 
with our usual fatality in visiting poetic shrines, the day had melted off 
into a kind of drizzling mist, strongly suggestive of a downright rain. It 
is a common trick these English days have; the weather here seems to be 
possessed of a water spirit. This constant drizzle is good for ivies, and 
hawthorns, and ladies’ complexions, as whoever travels here will observe, 
but it certainly is very bad for tourists. 

This Stratford is a small town, of between three and four thousand inha¬ 
bitants, and has m it a good many quaint old houses, and is characterized 
(so I thought) by an air of respectable, stand-still, and meditative repose, 
which, I am afraid, will entirely give way before the railroad demon, for I 
understand that it is soon to be connected by the Oxford, Worcester, and 
Wolverhampton line with all parts of the kingdom. Just think of that 
black little screeching imp rushing through these fields which have inspired 
so many fancies ; how everything poetical will fly before it! Think of such 
sweet snatches as these set to the tune of a railroad whistle:—- 

“ Hark ! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, 

And Phoebus ’gins to rise, 

His steeds to water at those springs 
On chaliced flowers that lies. 

** And winking Mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes, 

With every thing that pretty bin 
My lady sw r eet to rise.” 

And again;— 

“ Philomel with melody sing in our sweet lullaby, 

India, lulla, lullaby. 

Never harm, nor spell, nor charm. 

Come our lovely lady nigh.” 

I suppose the meadows, with their “winking Mary-buds,” will be‘.ill 
cut up into building-lots in tbe good times coming, and Philomel caught 
and put in a cage to sing to tourists at threepence a-head. 


96 


SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


We went to tlie White Lion, and soon had a little quiet parlour to our- j 
selves, neatly carpeted, with a sofa drawn up to the cheerful coal fire, a 
good-toned piano, and in short everything cheerful and comfortable. 

At first we thought we were too tired to do anything till after dinner; : 
we were going to take time to rest ourselves and proceed leisurely; so, ■ 

while the cloth was laying, C- took possession of the piano, and I of 

the sofa, till Mr. S. came in upon us, saying, “Why, Shakspeare’s house 
is right the next door here !” Upon that we got up, just to take a peep, 
and from peeping we proceeded to looking, and finally put on our things 
and went over seriatim. The house has recently been bought by a Shaks- 
jiearian Club, who have taken upon themselves the restoration and preser¬ 
vation of the premises. 

Shakspeare’s father, it seems, was a man of some position and substance 
in his day, being high sheriff and justice of the peace for the borough ; and 
his house, therefore, I suppose, may be considered a specimen of the 
respectable class of houses in the times of Queen Elizabeth. 

We saw a good many old houses somewhat similar to this on the road, 
particularly resembling it in the manner of plastering, which shows all the 
limber on the outside. Parts of the house have been sold, altered, and 
used for various purposes; a butcher’s stall having been kept in a part of 
it, and a tavern in another portion, being new-fronted with brick. 

The object of this Shakspeare Club has been to re-purchase all these 
parts, and restore them as nearly as possible to their primeval condition. 
The part of the house which is shown consists of a lower room, which is 
floored with flat stones very much broken. It has a wide, old-fashioned 
chimney on one side, and opens into a smaller room back of it. From 
thence you go up a rude flight of stairs to a low-studded room, with rough- 
plastered walls, where the poet was born. 

The prints of this room, which are generally sold, allow themselves in 
considerable poetic licence, representing it in fact as quite an elegant apart¬ 
ment, whereas, though it is kept scrupulously neat and clean, the air of it 
is ancient and rude. The roughly-plastered walls are so covered with 
names that it seemed impossible to add another. The name of almost 
every modern genius, names of kings, princes, dukes, are shown here; and 
it is really curious to see by what devices some very insignificant personages 
have endeavoured to make their own names conspicuous in the crowd. 
Generally speaking the inscription books and walls of distinguished places 
tend to give great force to the Vulgate rendering of Ecclesiastes i. 15, “The 
number of fools is infinite.” 

To add a name in a private, modest way to walls already so crowded, is 
allowable; but to scrawl one’s name, place of birth, and country, half 
across a wall, covering scores of names under it, is an operation which 
speaks for itself. No one would ever want to know more of a man than to 
see his name there and thus. 

Back of this room were some small bed-rooms, and what interest d me 
much, a staircase leading up into a dark garret. I could not but fancy I s iw 
a bright-eyed, curly-headed boy creeping up those stairs, zealous to explore 
the mysteries of that dark garret. There perhaps he saw the cat, with 
“eyue of burning coal, crouching ’fore the mouse’s hole.” Doubtless in 
this old garret were wonderful mysteries to him, curious stores of old cast¬ 
off goods and furniture, and rats, and mice, and cobwebs. I fancied the 




STfiATFOIiD-Ott-AVOtf. 


07 

indignation of some belligerent grandmother or aunt, who finds "Willie up 
there watching a mouse hole, with the cat, and has him down straightway, 
grumbling that Mary did not govern that child better. 

We know nothing who this Mary was that was his mother; but one 
sometimes wonders where in that coarse age, when queens and ladies talked 
familiarly, as women would blush to talk now, and when the broad, coarse 
wit of the Merry Wives of Windsor was gotten up to suit the taste of a 
virgin-queen,—one wonders, I say, when women were such and so, where 
he found those models of lily-like purity, women so chaste in soul and pure 
in language that they could not even bring their lips to utter a word of 
shame. Desdemona cannot even bring herself to speak the coarse word with 
which her husband taunts her; she cannot make herself believe that there 
are women in the world who could stoop to such grossness.* 

For my part I cannot believe that, in such an age, such deep heart- 
knowledge of pure womanhood could have come otherwise than by the 
impression on the child’s soul of a mother’s purity. I seem to have a 
vision of one of those women whom the world knows not of, silent, deep- 
hearted, loving, whom the coarser and more practically efficient jostle aside 
and underrate for their want of interest in the noisy chitchat and common¬ 
place of the day; but who yet have a sacred power, like that of the spirit 
of peace, to brood with dovelike wings over the childish heart, and quicken 
into life the struggling, slumbering elements of a sensitive nature. 

I cannot but think, in that beautiful scene, where he represents Desde¬ 
mona as amazed and struck dumb with the grossness and brutality of the 
charges which had been thrown upon her, yet so dignified in the conscious¬ 
ness cf her own purity, so magnanimous in the power of disinterested, 
forgiving love, that he was portraying no ideal excellence, but only repro¬ 
ducing, under fictitious and supposititious circumstances, the patience, 
magnanimity, and enduring love which had shone upon him in the house¬ 
hold words and ways of his mother. 

It seemed to me that in that bare and lowly chamber I saw a vision of a 
lovely face which was the first beauty that dawned on those childish eyes, 
and heard that voice whose lullaby tuned his ear to an exquisite sense of 
cadence and rhythm. I fancied that, while she thus serenely shone upon 
him like a benignant star, some rigorous grand-aunt took upon her the 
practical part of his guidance, chased up his wanderings to the right and 
left, scolded him for wanting to look out of the window because his little 
climbing toes left their mark on the neat wall, or rigorously arrested him 
when his curly head was seen bobbing off at the bottom of the street, fol¬ 
lowing a bird, or a dog, or a showman ; intercepting him in some happy 
hour when he was aiming to strike off on his own account to an adjoining 
field for ‘ ‘ winking Mary-buds’ made long sermons to him on the wicked¬ 
ness of mudding his clothes and wetting his new shoes (if he had any), and 
told him that something dreadful would come out of the graveyard and 
catch him if he was not a better boy, imagining that if it were not for her 
bustling activity Willie would go straight to destruction. 

I seem, too, to have a kind of perception of Shakspeare’s father; a quiet, 
God-fearing, thoughtful man, given to the reading of good books, avoiding 

* This idea is beautifully wrought out by Mrs. Jameson in her Characteristics of 
the Women of Shakspeare, to which the author is indebted for the suggestion, 

H 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


93 

quarrels with a most Christian-like fear, and with but small talent, either 
in the way of speech making or money getting; a man who wore his coat 
with an easy slouch, and who seldom knew where his money went to. 

All these things I seemed to perceive as if a sort of vision had radiated 
from the old walls; there seemed to be the rustling of garments and the 
sound of voices in the deserted rooms; the pattering of feet on the worm- 
eaten staircase; the light of still, shady summer afternoons, a hundred 
years ago, seemed to fall through the casements and lie upon the floor. 
There was an interest to everything about the house, even to the quaint 
iron fastenings about the windows; because those might have arrested that 
child’s attention, and been dwelt on in some dreamy hour of infant thought. 
The fires that once burned in those old chimneys, the fleeting sparks, the 
curling smoke, the glowing coals, all may have inspired their fancies. 

There is a strong tinge of household colouring in many parts of Shak- 
speare, imagery that could only have come from such habits of quiet, 
household contemplation. See, for example, this description of the stillness 
of the house, after all are gone to bed at night:— 

“ Now sleep yslaked hath the rout; 

No din but snores, the house about. 

Made louder by the o’erfed breast 
Of this most pompous marriage feast. 

The cat, with eyne of burning coal, 

Now crouches ’fore the mouse’s hole; 

And crickets sing at th’ oven’s mouth. 

As the blither for their drouth.” 

Also this description of the midnight capers of the fairies about the house, 
from Midsummer Night’s Dream :— 


u Puck. Now the hungry lion roars, 

And the wolf behowls the moon; 

Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, 

All with weary task fordone. 

Now the wasted brands do glow. 

Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud, 

Puts the wretch, that lies in woe. 

In remembrance of a shroud. 

Now it is the time of night, 

That the graves all gaping wide. 

Every one lets forth his sprite, 

In the churchway paths to glide: 

And we fairies that do run 
By the triple Hecate’s team. 

Prom the presence of the sun, 

Following darkness like a dream, 

Now are frolic; not a mouse 
Shall disturb this hallowed house: 

I am sent with broom before. 

To sweep the dust behind the door. 

'* Obe. Through this house give glimmering light, 

By the dead and drowsy lire. 

Every elf, and fairy sprite. 

Hop as light as bird from brier; 

And this ditty after me 
Sing, and dance it trippingly.” 

By the by, one cannot but be struck with the resemblance, in the spirit 
and colouring of these lines, to those very similar ones in the Pensero«o of 

Milton;—. 






STEATF0KD-0N-AV05T. 


* 99 


w Far from all resort of mirth, 

Save the cricket on the hearth, 

Or the bellman’s drowsy charm, 

To bless the doors from nightly harm ; 

While glowing embers, through the room. 

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.” 

I have often noticed how much the first writings of Milton resemble in 
their imagery and tone of colouring those of Shakspeare, particularly in the 
phraseology and manlier of describing flowers. I think, were a certain 
number of passages from Lycidas and Comus interspersed with a certain 
number from Midsummer Night’s Dream, the imagery, tone of thought, 
and style of colouring, would be found so nearly identical, that it would be 
difficult for one not perfectly familiar to distinguish them. You may 
try it. ' 

That Milton read and admired Shakspeare is evident from his allusion 
to him in L’Allegro. It is evident, however, that Milton’s taste had been 
so formed by the Greek models, that he was not entirely aware of all that 
was in Shakspeare; he speaks of him as a sweet, fanciful warbler, and it 
is exactly in sweetness and fancifulness that he seems to have derived 
benefit from him. In his earlier poems, Milton seems, like Shakspeare, to 
have let his mind run freely, as a brook warbles over many-coloured peb¬ 
bles ; whereas in his great poem he built after models. Had he known as 
little Latin and Greek as Shakspeare, the world, instead of seeing a well- 
arranged imitation of the ancient epics from his pen, would have seen 
inaugurated a new order of poetry. 

An unequalled artist, who should build after the model of a Grecian 
temple, would doubtless produce a splendid and effective building, because 
a certain originality always inheres in genius, even when copying; but far 
greater were it to invent an entirely new style of architecture, as different 
as the Gothic from the Grecian. This merit was Shakspeare’s. lie was a 
superb Gothic poet; Milton, a magnificent imitator of old forms, which 
by his genius were wrought almost into the energy of new productions. 

I think Shakspeare is to Milton precisely what Gothic architecture is to 
Grecian, or rather to the warmest, most vitalized reproductions of the 
Grecian; there is in Milton a calm, severe majesty, a graceful and polished 
inflorescence of ornament, that produces, as you look upon it, a serene, 
long, strong ground-swell of admiration and approval. Yet there is a cold 
unity of expression, that calls into exercise only the very highest range of 
our faculties: there is none of that wreathed involution of smiles and 
tears, of solemn earnestness and quaint conceits; those sudden uprushings 
of grand and magnificent sentiment, like the flame-pointed arches of cathe¬ 
drals; those ranges of fancy, half goblin, half human; those complications 
of dizzy magnificence with fairy lightness; those streamings of many-coloured 
light; those carvings wherein every natural object is faithfully reproduced, 
yet combined into a kind of enchantment: the union of all these is in 
Shakspeare, and not in Milton. Milton had one most glorious phase of 
humanity in its perfection; Shakspeare had all united; from the “deep 
and dreadful” sub-bass of the organ to the most aerial warbling of its 
highest key, not a stop or pipe was wanting. 

But, in fine, at the end of all this we went back to our hotel to dinner. 
After dinner we set out to see the church. Even Yv alter Scott has not a 
more poetic monument than this church, standing as it does amid old, 

it 2 


1()C * SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

embowering trees, on the beautiful bants of the Avon. A soft, still rain 
was falling on the leaves of the linden trees, as we walked up the avenue 
to the church. Even rainy though it was, I noticed that many little birds 
would occasionally break out into song. In the event of such a pheno¬ 
menon as a bright day, I think there must be quite a jubilee of birds here, 
even as he sung who lies below:— 

“ The ousel-cock, so black of hue, 

With orange-tawny bill, 

The throstle with liis note so true, 

The wren with little quill; 

The finch, the sparrow, and the lark. 

The plain-song cuckoo gray.” 

The church has been carefully restored inside, so that it is now in excel¬ 
lent preservation, and Shakspeare lies buried under a broad, flat stone in 
the chancel. I had full often read, and knew by heart, the inscription on 
this stone; but somehow, when I came and stood over it, and read it, it 
affected me as if there were an emanation from the grave beneath. I have 
often wondered at that inscription, that a mind so sensitive, that had 
thought so much, and expressed thought with such startling power on all 
the mysteries of death, the grave, and the future world, should have found 
nothing else to inscribe on his own grave but this:— 

“ Good Friend for Iesus SAKE forbare 
To diGG T-E Dust EncloAsed HERe 
Blese be T-E Man y spares T-Es Stones 
T 

And curst be He y moves my bones.” 

It seems that the inscription has not been without its use, in averting 
what the sensitive poet most dreaded; for it is recorded in one of the books 
sold here, that some years ago, in digging a neighbouring grave, a careless 
sexton broke into the side of Shalcspeare’s tomb, and looking in saw his 
bones, and could easily have carried away the skull had he not been de¬ 
terred by the imprecation. 

There is a monument in the side of the wall, which has a bust of Shak¬ 
speare upon it, said to be the most authentic likeness, and supposed to 
have been taken by a cast from his face after death. This statement was 
made to us by the guide who showed it, and he stated that Chantrey had 
come to that conclusion by a minute examination of the face. He took us 
into a room where was an exact plaster cast of the bust, on which he 
pointed out various little minutiae on which this idea was founded. The 
two sides of the face are not alike; there is a falling in and depression of 
the muscles on one side which does not exist on the other, such as probably 
would never have occurred in a fancy bust, where the effort always is to 
.render the two sides of the face as much alike as possible. There is more 
fulness about the lower part of the face than is consistent with the theory 
of an idealized bust, but is perfectly consistent with the probabilities of 
the time of life at which he died, and perhaps with the effects of the 
disease of which he died. 

All this I set down as it was related to me by our guide; it had a very 
plausible and probable sound, and I was bent on believing, which is a great 
matter in faith of all kinds. 

It is something in favour of the supposition that this is an authentic 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON - . 


101 

likeness, that it was erected in his own native town within seven years of 
his death, among people, therefore, who must have preserved the recollec¬ 
tion of his personal appearance. After the manner of those times it was 
originally painted, the hair and beard of an auburn colour, the eyes hazel, 
and the dress was represented as consisting of a scarlet doublet, over which 
was a loose black gown without sleeves; all which looks like an attempt to 
preserve an exact likeness. The inscription upon it, also, seemed to show 
that there were some in the world by no means unaware of who and what 
he w as. 

Next to the tomb of Shakspeare in the chancel is buried his favourite 
daughter, over whom somebody has placed the following quaint inscrip¬ 
tion ;— 

“ Witty above her sex, but that’s not all. 

Wise to salvation was good Mistress Hall. 

Something of Shakspeare was in that, but thi 3 
Wholly ot him, with whom she is now in bliss; 

Then, passenger, hast ne’er a tear, 

To weep with her that wept with all— 

That wept, yet she herself to cheer 
Them up with comforts cordial ? 

Her love shall live, her mercy spread. 

When thou hast ne’er a tear to shed.” 

This good Mistress Hall, it appears, was Shakspeare’s favourite among 
his three children. His son, Hamet, died at twelve years of age. His 
daughter Judith, as appears from some curious document still extant, could 
not write her own name, but signed with her mark; so that the “wit” of 
the family must have concentrated itself in Mistress Hall. To her, iu his 
last will, which is still extant, Shakspeare bequeathed an amount of houses, 
lands, plate, jewels, and other valuables, sufficient to constitute quite a 
handsome estate. It would appear, from this, that the poet deemed her 
not only “ wise unto salvation,” but wise in her day and generation, thus 
intrusting her with the bulk of his worldly goods. 

His wife, Ann Hathaway, is buried near by,- under the same pavement. 
From the slight notice taken of her in the poet’s will, it would appear that 
there was little love between them. He married her when he was but 
eighteen; most likely she was a mere rustic beauty, entirely incapable 
either of appreciating or adapting herself to that wide and wonderful mind 
in its full development. 

As to Mistress Hall, though the estate was carefully entailed, through her, 
to heirs male through all genex-ations, it was not her good fortune to become 
the mother of a long line, for she had only one daughtex*, who became Lady 
Bai-nard, and in whom, dying childless, the family became extinct. Shaks¬ 
peare, like Scott, seems to have had the desire to perpetuate himself by 
founding a family with an estate, and the coincidence in the result is striking. 
Genius must be its own monument. 

After we had explored the church, we went out to walk about the place. 
We crossed the beautiful bridge over the Avon, and thought how lovely 
those fields and meadows would look, if they only had sunshine to set them 
out. Then we went to the town hall, where we met the mayor, who had 
kindly called and offered to show xxs the place. 

It seems, in 1768, that Garrick set himself to work in good earnest to do 
honour to Shakspeare’s memory, by getting up a public demonstration at 


» 

102 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

Stratford; and the world, through the talents of this actor, having become 
.•alive and enthusiastic, liberal subscriptions were made by the nobility and 
gentry, the town hall was handsomely repaired and adorned, and a statue 
of Shakspeare, presented by Garrick, was placed in a niche at one end. 
Then all the chief men and the mighty men of the nation came and testified 
their reverence for the poet, by having a general jubilee. A great tent was 
spread on the banks of the Avon, where they made speeches and drank 
wine, and wound up all with a great dance in the town hail; and so the 
manes of Shakspeare were appeased, and his position settled for all genera¬ 
tions. The room in the town-hall is a very handsome one, and has pictures 
of Garrick and the other notables who figured on that occasion. 

After that we were taken to see New Place. “And what is New Place ?” 
you say; “the house where Shakspeare lived?” Not exactly; but a house 
built where his house was. 

We went out into what was Sliakspeare’s garden, where we were shown 
his mulberry—not the one that he planted though, but a veritable mulberry 
planted on the same spot; and then we went back to our hotel very tired, 
but having conscientiously performed every jot and tittle of the duty of good 
pilgrims. 

As we sat, in the drizzly evening, over our comfortable tea table, C- 

ventured to intimate pretty decidedly that he considered the whole thing a 
bore; whereat I thought I saw a slight twinkle around the eyes and mouth 
of our most Christian and patient friend, Joseph Sturge. Mr. S. laughingly 
told him that he thought it the greatest exercise of Christian tolerance, 
that he should have trailed round in the mud with us all day in our sight¬ 
seeing, bearing with our unreasonable raptures. He smiled, and said, 
quietly, “I must confess that I was a little pleased that our friend Harriet 
w'as so zealous to see Shakspeare’s house, when it wasn’t his house, and so 
earnest to get sprigs from his mulberry, when it wasn’t his mulberry.” We 
were quite ready to allow the foolishness of the thing, and join the laugh at 
our own expense. 

As to our bed rooms, you must know that all the apartments in this 
house are named after different plays of Shakspeare, the name being printed 
conspicuously over each door; so that the choosing of our rooms made us 
a little sport. 

“ What rooms will you have, gentlemen !” says the pretty chamber maid. 

“Rooms,” said Mr. S.; “why, what are thereto have?” 

“Well, there’s Richard III., and there’s Hamlet,” says the girl. 

“0, Hamlet, by all means,” said I; “ that was always my favourite. 
Can’t sleep in Richard III., we should have such bad dreams.” 

“For my part,” said C-, “I want All’s well that ends well.” 

“I think,” said the chamber maid, hesitating, “the bed in Hamlet isn’t 
large enough for two. Richard III. is a very nice room, sir.” 

In fact, it became evident that we were foreordained to Richard ; so we 
resolved to embrace the modern historical view of this subject, which will 
before long turn him out a saint, and not be afraid of the muster roll of 
ghosts which Shakspeare represented as infesting his apartment. 

Well, for a wonder, the next morning rose a genuine sunny, beautiful day. 
Let the fact be recorded, that such things do sometimes occur even in Eng¬ 
land. C-was mollified, and began to recant his ill-natured heresies of 

the night before, and went so far as to walk, out of his own proper motion, 





STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 103 

to Ann Hathaway’s cottage before breakfast— he being one of the brethren 
described by Longfellow, 

“ Who is gifted with most miraculous powers 
Of gettiug up at all sorts of houi-3 j” 

and therefore he came in to breakfast table with that serenity of virtuous 
composure which generally attends those who have been out enjoying the 
beauties of nature while their neighbours have been ingloriously dozing. 

The walk, he said, was beautiful; the cottage damp, musty, and fusty; 
and a supposititious old bedstead, of the age of Queen Elizabeth, which had 
been obtruded upon his notice because it might have belonged to Ann 
Hathaway’s mother, received a special malediction. For my part, my 
relic-hunting propensities were not in the slightest degree appeased, but 
rather stimulated, by the investigations of the day before. 

It seemed to me so singular that of stich a man there should not remain 
one accredited relic! Of Martin Luther, though he lived much earlier, 
how many things remain! Of almost any distinguished character how 
much more is known than of Shakspeare ! There is not, as far as I can 
discover, an authentic relic of anything belonging to him. There are very 
few anecdotes of his sayings or doings; no letters, no private memoranda, 
that should let us into the secret of what he was personally who has in 
turns personated all minds. The very perfection of his dramatic talent has 
become an impenetrable veil: we can no more tell from his writings what 
were his predominant tastes and habits than we can discriminate among the 
variety of melodies what are the native notes of the mocking bird. The 
only means left us for forming an opinion of what he was personally, are 
ini'erences of the most delicate nature from the slightest premises. 

The common idea which has pervaded the world, of a joyous, roving, 
somewhat unsettled, and dissipated character, would seem, from many 
well-authenticated facts, to be incorrect. The gaieties and dissipations of 
his life seem to have been confined to his very earliest days, and to have 
been the exuberance of a most extraordinary vitality, bursting into exis¬ 
tence with such force and vivacity that it had not had time to collect itself, 
and so come to self-knowledge and control. By many accounts it would 
appear that the character he sustained in the last years of his life was that 
of a judicious, common-sense sort of man; a discreet, reputable, and reli¬ 
gious householder. 

The inscription on his tomb is worthy of remark, as indicating the repu¬ 
tation he bore at the time : “ Judicio Pylium , genio Socratem, arte Maro - 
nem .” (In judgment a Nestor, in genius a Socrates, in art a Virgil.) 

The comparison of him, in the first place, to Nestor, proverbially famous 
for practical judgment and virtue of life; next to Socrates, who was a kind 
of Greek combination of Dr. Paley and Dr. Franklin, indicates a very dif¬ 
ferent impression of him from what would generally be expressed of a poet, 
certainly what would not have been placed on the grave of an eccentric, 
erratic, will-o’-the-wisp genius, however distinguished. Moreover, the 
pious author of good Mistress Hall’s epitaph records the fact of her being 
“wise to salvation,” as a more especial point of resemblance to her father 
than even her being “witty above her sex,” and expresses most confident 
hope of her being with him in bliss. The Puritan tone of the epitaph, as 
well as the quality of the verse, gives reason to suppose that it was not 


104 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LAND9. 


written by one who was seduced into a tombstone lie by any superfluity of 
poetic sympathy. 

The fast will of Shakspeare, written by his own hand and still preserved, 
shows several things of the man. 

The introduction is as follows :—- 

“In filename of God. Amen. I, William Shakspeare, at Stratford- 
upon-Avon, in the county of Warwick, gentleman, in perfect health and 
memory, (God be praised,) do make and ordain this my last will and testa¬ 
ment in manner and form following; that is to say,— 

“I commend my soul into the hands of God my Creator, hoping, and 
assuredly believing, through the only merits of Jesus Christ, my Saviour, 
to be made partaker of life everlasting; and my body to the earth, whereof 
it is made.” 

The will then goes on to dispose of an amount of houses, lands, plate, 
money, jewels, &c., which showed certainly that the poet had possessed 
some worldly skill and thrift in accumulation, and to divide them with a 
care and accuracy which would indicate that he was by no means of that 
dreamy and unpractical habit of mind which cares not what becomes of 
worldly goods. 

We may also infer something of a man’s character from the tone and sen¬ 
timents of others towards him. Glass of a certain colour casts on sur¬ 
rounding objects a reflection of its own hue, and so the tint of a man’s 
character returns upon us in the habitual manner in which he is spoken of 
by those around him. The common mode of speaking of Shakspeare 
always savoured of endearment. “Gentle Will” is an expression that 
seemed oftenest repeated. Ben Johnson inscribed his funeral verses, “To 
the Memory of my beloved Mr. William Shakspeare;” he calls him the 
“sweet swan of Avon.” Again, in his lines under a bust of Shakspeare, 
he says,— 

“The figure that thou seest put, 

It was for gentle Shakspeare cut.” 

In later times Milton, who could have known him only by tradition, 
calls him “my Shakspeare,” “dear son of memory,” and “ sweetest 
Shakspeare.” Now, nobody ever wrote of sweet John Milton, or gentle 
John Milton, or gentle Martin Luther, or even sweet Ben Johnson. 

Rowe says of Shakspeare, ‘ ‘ The latter part of his life was spent, as all 
men of good sense would wish theirs may be, in ease, retirement, and the 
conversation of his friends. His pleasurable wit and good nature en¬ 
gaged him in the acquaintance, and entitled him to the friendship, of the 
gentlemen of the neighbourhood.” And Dr. Drake says, “He was high in 
reputation as a poet, favoured by the great and the accomplished, and 
beloved by all who knew him.” 

That Shakspeare had religious principle, I infer not merely from the in¬ 
dications of his will and tombstone, but from those strong evidences of the 
working of the religious element which are scattered through his plays. 
No man could have a clearer perception of God’s authority and man’s duty; 
no one has expressed more forcibly the strength of God’s government, the 
spirituality of his requirements, or shown with more fearful power the 
struggles of the “law in the members warring against the law of the 
mind.” 

These evidences, scattered through his plays, of deep religious struggles, 


STKATFOKD-ON-AVON. 


105 


make probable the idea that, in the latter thoughtful and tranquil years 
of his life, devotional impulses might have settled into habits, and that the 
solemn language of his will, in which he professes his faith in Christ, was 
not a mere form. Probably he had all his life, even in his gayest hours, 
more real religious principle than the hilarity of his manner would give 
reason to suppose. I always fancy he was thinking of himself Avhen he 
wrote this character: “For the man doth fear God, howsoever it seem nob 
in him by i-eason of some large jests he doth make.” 

Neither is there any foundation for the impression that he was under¬ 
valued in his own times. No literary man of his day had more success, 
more flattering attentions from the great, or reaped more of the substantial 
fruits of popularity, in the form of worldly goods. While his contempo¬ 
rary, Ben Jonson, sick in a miserable alley, is forced to beg, and receives 
but a wretched pittance from Charles I., Shakspeare’s fortune steadily in¬ 
creases from year to year. He buys the best place in his native town, and 
fits it up with great taste; he offered to lend, on proper security, a sum of 
money for the use of the town of Stratford; he added to his estate in Strat¬ 
ford a hundred and seventy acres of land; he bought half the great and 
small tithes of Stratford; and his annual income is estimated to have been 
what would at the present time be nearly four thousand dollars. 

Queen Elizabeth also patronized him after her ordinary fashion of patron¬ 
izing literary men,— that is to say, she expressed her gracious pleasure 
that he should burn incense to her, and pay his own bills : economy was not 
one of the least of the royal graces. The Earl of Southampton patronized 
him in a more material fashion. 

Queen Elizabeth even so far condescended to the poet as to perform cer¬ 
tain hoydenish tricks while he was playing on the stage, to see if she could 
not disconcert his speaking by the majesty of her royal presence. The 
poet, who was performing the part of King Henry IV., took no notice of her 
motions, till, in order to bring him to a crisis, she dropped her glove at his 
feet; whereat he picked it up, and presented it her, improvising these two 
lines, as if they had been a part of the play:— 

“ And though now bent on this high embassy, 

Yet stoop we to take up our cousin’s glore.” 

I think this anecdote very characteristic of them both; it seems to me it 
shows that the poet did not so absolutely crawl in the dust before her, as 
did almost all the so-called men of her court; though he did certainly flatter 
her after a fashion in which few queens can be flattered. His description 
of the belligerent old Gorgon as the “ Fair Vestal throned by the West” 
seems like the poetry and fancy of the beautiful Fairy Queen wasted upon 
the half-brute clown:— 

“ Come sit thee down upon this flowery bed. 

While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, 

And stick musk roses in thy sleek, smooth head. 

And kiss thy fair, large ears, my gentle joy.” 

Elizabeth’s understanding and appreciation of Shakspeare was much after 
the fashion of Nick Bottom’s of the Fairy Queen. I cannot but believe that 
the men of genius who employed their powers in celebrating this most re¬ 
pulsive and disagreeable woman must sometimes have comforted themselves 
by a good laugh in private. 


306 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


In order to appreciate Shakspeare’s mind from bis plays, we must dis¬ 
criminate what expressed the gross tastes of his age, and what he wrote to 
please himself. The Merry Wives of Windsor Avas a specimen of A\ r hat he 
wrote for the “Fair Vestala commentary on the delicacy of her maiden 
meditations. The Midsummer Night’s Dream he wrote from his own inner 
dream world. 

In the morning we took leave of our hotel. In leaving we were much 
touched with the simple kindliness of the people of the house. The landlady 
and her daughters came to bid us farewell, with much feeling; and the 
former begged my acceptance of a bead purse, knit by one of her daughters, 
she said, during the Avinter eA r enings while they were reading Uncle Tom. 
In this town one finds the simple-hearted, kindly English people correspond¬ 
ing to the same class which we see in our retired New England toAvns. We 
received many marks of kindness from different residents in Stratford; in 
the expression of them they appreciated and entered into our desire for 
privacy with a delicacy which touched us sensibly. 

We had little time to look about us to see Stratford in the sunshine. So 
Ave Avent over to a place on the banks of the AA r on, where, it was said, we 
could gain a very perfect Anew of the church. The remembrance of this 
spot is to me like a very pleasant di*eam. The day Avas bright, the air Avas 
soft and still, as Ave walked up and down the alleys of a beautiful garden 
that extended quite to the church; the rooks Avere dreamily cawing, and 
wheeling in dark, airy circles round the old buttresses and spire. A funeral 
train had come into the graveyard, and the passing bell was tolling. A 
thousand undefined emotions struggled in my mind. 

That loving heart, that active fancy, that subtle, elastic power of appre¬ 
ciating and expressing all phases, all passions of humanity, are they 
breathed out on the wind ? are they spent like the lightning ? are they ex¬ 
haled like the breath of floAvers? or are they still living, still active? and 
if so, where and how ? Is it reserved for us, in that * ‘ undiscovered 
country” which he spoke of, ever to meet the great souls whose breath has 
kindled our souls ? 

I think we forget the consequences of our own belief in immortality, and 
look on the ranks of prostrate dead as a mower on fields of prostrate 
flowers, forgetting that activity is an essential of souls, and that every soul 
which has passed away from this world must ever since have been actWely 
developing those habits of mind and modes of feeling which it began here. 

The haughty, cruel, selfish Elizabeth, and all the great men of her court, - 
are still living and acting somewhere; but where? For my part, I am 
often reminded, when dwelling on departed genius, of Luther’s ejaculation 
for his favourite classic poet: “I hope God will have mercy on such.” 

We speak of the glory of God as exhibited in natural landscape making 
what is it, compared Avith the glory of God as shown in the making of souls, 
especially those souls Avhich seem to be endoAved Avitii a creative poAver like 
his OAvn ? 

There seems, strictly speaking, to be only two classes of souls—the 
creative and the receptive. Now, these creators seem to me to have a 
beauty and a Avorth about them entirely independent of their moral cha¬ 
racter. That ethereal power Avhich shoAvs itself in Greek sculpture and 
Gothic architecture, in Rubens, Shakspeare, and Mozart, has a quality to 
me inexpressibly admirable and lovable. We may say, it is true, that 
there is no moral excellence in it ; but none the less do we admire it. God 



WARWICK, 


10 ? 

has made us so that we cannot help loving it; our souls go forth to it with 
an infinite longing, nor can that longing be condemned. That mystic 
quality that exists in these souls is a glimpse and intimation of what exists 
in Him in full perfection. If we remember this we shall not lose ourselves 
in admiration of worldly genius, but be led by it to a better understanding 
of what He is, of whom all the glories of poeti’y and art are but symbols 
and shadows. 


LETTER XI. 

WARWICK.—KENILWORTH. 

Dear II.:— 

From Stratford we drove to Warwick, (or “Warrick,” as they call it 
here.) This town stands on a rocky hill on the banks of the Avon, and is 
quite a considerable place, for it returns two members to Parliament, and 
has upwards of ten thousand inhabitants; and also has some famous manu¬ 
factories of wool combing and spinning. But what we came to see was the 
castle. We drove up to the Warwick Arms, which is the principal hotel in 
the place; and, finding that we were within the hours appointed for ex¬ 
hibition, we went immediately. 

With my head in a kind of historical mist, full of images of York and 
Lancaster, and Red and White Roses, and Warwick the king maker, I 
looked up to the towers and battlements of the old castle. We went in 
through a passage-way cut in solid rock, about twenty feet deep, and I 
should think fifty long. These walls were entirely covered with ivy, hang¬ 
ing down like green streamers; gentle and peaceable pennons these are, 
waving and whispering that the old war times are gone. 

At the end of this passage there is a drawbridge over what was formerly 
the moat, but which is now grassed and planted with shrubbery. Up over 
our heads we saw the great iron teeth of the portcullis. A rusty old giant 
it seemed up there, like Pope and Pagan in Pilgrim’s Progress, finding no 
scope for himself in these peaceable times. 

When we came fairly into the court-yard of the castle, a scene of mag¬ 
nificent beauty opened before us. I cannot describe it minutely. The 
principal features are the battlements, towers, and turrets of the old feudal 
castle, encompassed by grounds on which lias been expended all that 
princely art of landscape gardening for which England is famous—leafy 
thickets, magnificent trees, openings, and vistas of verdure, and wide 
sweeps of grass, short, thick, and vividly green, as the velvet moss we 
sometimes see growing on rocks in New England. Grass is an art and 
a science in England—it is an institution. The pains that are taken in 
solving, tending, cutting, clipping, rolling, and otherwise nursing and coax¬ 
ing it, being seconded by the misty breath, and often falling tears of the 
climate, produce results which must be seen to be appreciated. 

So again of trees in England. Trees here are an order of nobility ; and 
they wear their crowns right kingly. A few years ago, when Miss Sedg¬ 
wick w r as in this country, while admiring some splendid trees in a noble¬ 
man’s park, a lady standing by said to her encouragingly, “0, well, I 
suppose your trees in America will be grown up after a while!” Since 
that time another style of thinking of America has come up, and the remark 
that I most generally hear made is, “ 0, I suppose we cannot think of 



108 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

showing you anything in the way of trees, coming as you do from America!” 
Throwing out of account, however, the gigantic growth of our western river 
bottoms, where I have seen sycamore trunks twenty feet in diameter— 
leaving out of account, I say, all this mammoth arboria, these English parks 
have trees as fine and as effective, of their kind, as any of ours; and when 
I say their trees are an order of nobility, I mean that they pay a reverence 
xo them such as their magnificence deserves. Such elms as adorn the streets 
of New Haven, or overarch the meadows of Andover, would in England be 
considered as of a value which no money could represent; no pains, no ex¬ 
pense would be spared to preserve their life and health; they would never 
be shot dead by having gas pipes laid under them, as they have been in 
some of our New England towns; or suffered to be devoured by canker 
worms for want of any amount of money spent in their defence. 

Some of the finest trees in this place are magnificent cedars of Lebanon, 
which bring to mind the expression in Psalms, “ Excellent as the cedars.” 
They are the very impersonation of kingly majesty, and are fitted to grace 
the old feudal stronghold of Warwick the king maker. These trees, stand¬ 
ing as they do amid magnificent sweeps and undulations of lawn, throwing 
out their mighty arms with such majestic breadth and freedom of outline, 
are themselves a living, growing, historical epic. Their seed was brought 
from Holy Land in the old days of the crusades; and a hundred legions 
might be made up of the time, date, and occasion of their planting. These 
crusades have left their mark everywhere through Europe, from the cross 
panel on the doors of common houses to the oriental touches and arabesques 
of castles and cathedrals. 

In the reign of Stephen, there was a certain Roger de Newburg, second 
Earl of Warwick, who appears to have been an exceedingly active and 
public-spirited character; and, besides conquering part of Wales, founded 
in this neighbourhood various priories and hospitals, among which was the 
house of the Templars and a hospital for lepers. He made several pil¬ 
grimages to Holy Land; and so I think it as likely as most theories that 
he ought to have the credit of these cedars. 

These Earls of Warwick appear always to have been remarkably stirring 
men in their day and generation, and foremost in whatever was going on in 
the world, whether political or religious. To begiu, there was Guy, Earl 
of Warwick, who lived somewhei'e in the times of the old dispensation, 
before King Arthur, and who distinguished himself, according to the 
fashion of those clays, by killing giants and various coloured dragons, among 
which a green one especially figures. It appears that he slew also a notable 
dun cow, of a kind of mastodon breed, which prevailed in those early days, 
which was making great havoc in the neighbourhood. In later times, when 
the giants, dragons, and other animals of that sort were somewhat brought 
under, we find the Earls of Warwick equally busy burning ancl slaying to 
the right and left; now crusading into Palestine and now fighting the 
French, who were a standing resort for activity when nothing else was to 
be done; with great versatility diversifying these affairs with pilgrimages 
to the holy sepulchre, and founding monasteries and hospitals. One stout 
earl, after going to Palestine and laying about him like a very dragon for 
some yeai'S, brought home a live Saracen king to London, and had him bap¬ 
tized and made a Christian of, vi ct armis. 

Luring the scuffle of the Roses, it was a Warwick, of course, who was 


WARWICK. 


109 

uppermost. Stout old Richard, the king-maker, set up first one party and 
then the other, according to his own sovereign pleasure, and showed as 
much talent at fighting on both sides, and keeping the country in an up¬ 
roar as the modern politicians of America. 

When the times of the Long Parliament and the Commonwealth came, 
an Earl of Warwick was high admiral of England, and fought valiantly for 
the Commonwealth, using the navy on the popular side; and his grandson 
married the youngest daughter of Oliver Cromwell. When the royal family 
was to be restored, an Earl of Warwick was one of the six lords who were 
Bent to Holland for Charles II. The earls of this family have been no less 
distinguished for movements which have favoured the advance of civiliza¬ 
tion and letters than for energy in the battle-field. In the reign of Queen 
Elizabeth, an Earl of Warwick founded the History Lectui-e at Cambridge, 
and left a salary for the professor. This same earl was general patron of 
letters and arts, assisting many men of talents, and was a particular and 
intimate friend of Sir Philip Sidney. 

What more especially concerns us as New Englanders is, that an earl of 
this house was the powerful patron and protector of New England during 
the earlier years of our country. This was Robert Greville, the high 
admiral of England before alluded to, and ever looked upon as a protector 
of the Puritans. Frequent allusion is made to him in Winthrop’s Journal 
as performing various good offices for them. 

The first grant of Connecticut was made to this earl, and by him assigned 
to Lord Say and Seal, and Lord Brooke. The patronage which this earl 
extended to the Puritans is more remarkable because in principle he was 
favourable to Episcopacy. It appears to have been prompted by a chival¬ 
rous sense of justice; probably the same which influenced old Guy of War¬ 
wick, in the King Arthur times, of whom the ancient chronicler says, 
“ This worshipful knight, in his acts of warre, ever consydered what par¬ 
ties had wronge, and tlierto would he drave.” 

The present earl has never taken a share in public or political life, but 
resided entirely on his estate, devoting himself to the improvement of his 
ground and tenants. He received the estate much embarrassed, and the 
condition of the tenantry was at that time quite depressed. By the devo¬ 
tion of his life it has been rendered one of the most flourishing and pros¬ 
perous estates in this part of England. I have heard him spoken of as a 
very exemplary, excellent man. He is now quite advanced, and has been 
for some time in failing health. He sent our party a very kind and oblig¬ 
ing message, desiring that we would consider ourselves fully at liberty to 
visit any part of the grounds or castle, there being always some reservation 
as to what tourists may visit. 

We caught glimpses of him once or twice, supported by attendants, as he 
was taking the air in one of the walks of the grounds, and afterwards 
wheeled about in a garden chair. 

The family has thrice died out in the direct line, and been obliged tc 
resuscitate through collateral branches; but it seems the blood holds, good 
notwithstanding. As to honours there is scarcely a possible distinction in 
the state or army that has not at one time or other been the property of 
this family. 

Under the shade of these lofty cedars they have sprung and fallen, an 
hereditary line of princes. One cannot but feelj in looking on these 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


110 

majestic trees, with the battlements, turrets, and towers of the old castle 
everywhere surrounding him, and the magnificent parks and lawns opening 
through dreamy vistas of trees into what seems immeasurable distance, the 
force of the soliloquy which Shakspeare puts into the mouth of the dying 
old king-maker, as he lies breathing out his soul in the dust and blood of 
the battle-held:—• 

“ Tims yields the cedar to the ave’s edge, 

Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, 

Under whose shade the rampant lion slept ; 

Whose top branch overpeered Jove’s spreading tree. 

And kept low shrubs from winter’s powerful wind. 

These eyes, that now are dimmed with death’s black veil. 

Have been as piercing as the midday sun 
To search the secret treasons of the world : 

The wrinkles in my brow, now filled with blood. 

Were likened oft to kingly sepulchres; 

For who lived king but I could dig his grave ? 

And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow ? 

Lo, now my glory smeared in dust and blood ! 

My parks, my walks, my manors that I bad. 

Even now forsake me; and of all my lands 
Is nothing left me but my body’s length ! 

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust ? 

And live we how we can, yet die we must.” 

During Shakspeare’s life Warwick was in the possession of Greville, the 
friend of Sir Philip Sidney, and patron of arts and letters. It is not, 
therefore, improbable that Shakspeare might, in his times, often have been 
admitted to wander through the magnificent grounds, and it is more than 
probable that the sight of these majestic cedars might have suggested the 
noble image in this soliloquy. It is only about eight miles from Stratford, 
within the fair limits of a comfortable pedestrian excursion, and certainly 
could not bub have been an object of deep interest to such a mind 
as his. 

I have described the grounds first, but, in fact, we did not look at them 
first, but went into the house, where we saw not only all the state rooms, 
but, through the kindness of the noble proprietor, many of those which are 
not commonly exhibited ; a bewildering display of magnificent apartments, 
pictures, gems, vases, arms and armour, antiques, all, in short, that the 
wealth of a princely and powerful family had for centuries been accumu¬ 
lating. 

The great hall of the castle is sixty-two feet in length and forty in 
breadth, ornamented with a richly carved Gothic roof, in which figures 
largely the family cognizance of the bear and ragged staff. There is a suc¬ 
cession of shields, on which are emblazoned the quarterings of successive 
Earls of Warwick. The sides of the wall are ornamented with lances, 
corselets, shields, helmets, and complete suits of armour, regularly arranged 
as in an armoury. Here I learned what the buff coat is, which had so often 
puzzled me in reading Scott’s descriptions, as there were several hanging up 
here. It seemed to be a loose doublet of chamois leather, which was worn 
under the armour, and protected the body from its harshness. 

Here we saw the helmet of Cromwell, a most venerable relic. Before 
the great, cavernous fireplace, was piled up on a sled a quantity of yew tree 
wood. The rude simplicity of thus arranging it on the polished floor of 












WARWICK. Ill 

this magnificent apartment struck me as quite singular. I suppose it is a 
continuation of some ancient custom. 

Opening from this apartment on either side are suites of rooms, the 
whole series being three hundred and thirty-three feet in length. These 
rooms are all hung with pictures, and studded with antiques and curiosities 
of immense value. There is, first, the red drawing-room, and then the 
cedar drawing room, then the gilt drawing room, the state bed room, the 
boudoir, &c., &c., hung with pictures by Vandyke, Rubens, Guido, Sir 
Joshua Reynolds, Paul Veronese, any one of which would require days of 
study; of course, the casual glance that one could give them in a rapid 
survey would not amount to much. 

We were shown one table of gems and lapis lazuli, which cost what 
would be reckoned a comfortable fortune in New England. For matters of 
this kind I have little sympathy. The canvas, made vivid by the soul of an 
inspired artist, tells me something of God’s power in creating that soul; 
but a table of gems is in nowise interesting to me, except so far as it is 
pretty in itself. 

I walked to one of the windows of these lordly apartments, and wdiile the 
company were examining buhl cabinets, and all other deliciousness of the 
place, I looked down the old gray walls into the amber waiters of the Avon, 
which flows at their base, and thought that the most beautiful of all was 
without. There is a tiny fall that crosses the river just above here, whose 
waters turn the wheels of an old mossy mill, where for centuries the family 
grain has been ground. The river winds away through the beautiful parks 
and undulating foliage, its soft grassy banks dotted here and there with 
sheep and cattle, and you catch farewell gleams and glitters of it as it loses 
itself among the trees. 

) Gray moss, wallflowers, ivy, and grass were growing here and there out 
of crevices in the castle walls, as I looked down, sometimes trailing their 
rippling tendrils in the river. This vegetative propensity of walls is one 
of the chief graces of these old buildings. 

In the state bedroom were a bed and furnishings of rich crimson velvet, 
once belonging to Queen Anne, and presented by George III. to the War¬ 
wick family. The walls are hung with Brussels tapestry, representing the 
gardens of Versailles as they were at the time. The chimney-piece, which 
is sculptured of verde antique and wdiite marble, supports two black 
marble vases on its mantel. Over the mantel-piece is a full-length portrait 
of Queen Anne, in a rich brocade dress, wearing the collar and jewels of 
the Garter, bearing in one hand a sceptre, and in the other a globe. There 
are two splendid buhl cabinets in the room, and a table of costly stone 
from Italy ; it is mounted on a richly carved and gilt stand. 

The boudoir, which adjoins, is hung with pea-green satin and velvet. In 
this room is one of the most authentic portraits of Henry VIII., by Hol¬ 
bein, in which that selfish, brutal, unfeeling tyrant is veritably set forth, 
with all the gold and gems which, in his day, blinded mankind ; his fat, 
white hands were beautifully painted. Men have found out Henry VIII. 
by this time ; he is a dead sinner, and nothing more is to be expected Ox 
him, and so he gets a just award ; but the disposition which bows down 
and worships anything of any character in our day which is splendid and 
successful, and excuses all moral delinquencies, if they are only availablej 
is not a whit better than that which cringed before Henry. 


112 SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 

In the same room was a boar hunt, by Rubens, a disagreeable subject, 
but wrought with wonderful power. There were several other pictures of 
Holbein’s in this room ; one of Martin Luther. 

We passed through a long corridor, whose sides were lined with pictures, 
statues, busts, &c. Out of the multitude, three particularly interested 
me ; one was a noble bat melancholy bust of the Black Prince, beautifully 
chiseled in white marble ; another was a plaster cast, said to have been 
taken of the face of Oliver Cromwell immediately after death. The face 
had a homely strength amounting almost to coarseness. The evidences of 
its genuineness appear in glancing at it ; everything is authentic, even to 
the wart on his lip ; no one would have imagined such a one, but the 
expression was noble and peaceful, bringing to mind the oft quoted 
words,— 

“ After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well.” 

At the end of the same corridor is a splendid picture of Charles I. on 
horseback, by Vandyke, a most masterly performance, and appearing in its 
position almost like a reality. Poor Charles had rather hard measure, it 
always seemed to me. He simply did as all other princes had done before 
him ; that is to say, he lied steadily, invariably, and conscientiously, in 
every instance where he thought he could gain anything by it ; just as 
Charles V., and Francis IV., and Catharine de Medicis, and Henry VIII., 
and Elizabeth, and James, and all good royal folks had always done ; and 
lo ! he must lose his head for it. His was altogether a more gentle¬ 
manly and respectable performance than that of Henry, not wanting in 
a sort of ideal magnificence, which his brutal predecessor, or even his 
shambling old father never dreamed of. But so it is ; it is not always 
on those who are sinners above all men that the tower of Siloam falls, 
but only on those who happen to be under it when its time comes. So 
I intend to cherish a little partiality for gentlemanly, magnificent 
Charles I.; and certainly one could get no more splendid idea of him 
than by seeing him stately, silent, and melancholy on his white horse, at 
the end of this long corridor. There lie sits, facing the calm, stony, 
sleeping face of Oliver, and neither question nor reply passes between 
them. 

From this corridor we went into the chapel, whose Gothic windows, 
filled with rich, old painted glass, cast a many-coloured light over the 
oak-carved walls and altar-piece. The ceiling is of fine old oak, wrought 
with the arms of the family. The window over the altar is the gift of the 
Earl of Essex. This room is devoted to the daily religious worship of the 
family. It has been the custom of the present earl in former years to con¬ 
duct the devotions of the family here himself. 

About this time my head and eyes came to that point which Solomon 
intimates to be not commonly arrived at by mortals—when the eye is satis¬ 
fied with seeing. I remember a confused ramble through apartment after 
apartment, but not a single thing in them except two pictures of Salvator 
Rosa’s, which I thought extremely ugly, and was told, as people always are 
when they make such declarations, that the difficulty was entirely in my¬ 
self, and that if I would study them two or three months in faith,'I should 
perceive something very astonishing. This may be, but it holds equally 
good of the coals o f an evening fire, or the sparks on a chimney back ; in 








WARWICK. 


113 

fitlier of which, by resolute looking, and some imagination, one can see 
anything he chooses. I utterly distrust this process, by which old black 
pictures are looked into shape; but then I have nothing to lose, beiug in 
the court of the Gentiles in these matters, and obstinately determined 
not to believe in any real presence in art which I cannot perceive by my 
senses. 

After having examined all the upper stories, we went down into the 
vaults underneath—vaults once grim and hoary, terrible to captives and 
feudal enemies, now devoted to no purpose more grim than that of coal 
cellars and wine vaults. In Oliver’s time, a regiment was quartered there: 
they are extensive enough, apparently, for an army. 

The kitchen and its adjuncts are of magnificent dimensions, and indicate 
an amplitude in the way of provision for good cheer worthy an ancient 
house ; and what struck me as a still better feature was a library of sound, 
sensible, historical, and religious works for the servants. 

We went into the beer vaults, where a man drew beer into a long black 
jack, such as Scott describes. It is a tankard, made of black leather, I 
should think half a yard deep. He drew the beer from a large hogshead, 
and offered us some in a glass. It looked very clear, but, on tasting, I 
found it so exceedingly bitter that it struck me there would be small virtue 
for me in abstinence. 

In passing up to go out of the house, we met in the entry two pleasant- 
looking young women, dressed in white muslin. As they passed us, a door 
opened where a table Avas handsomely set out, at which quite a number of 
well-dressed people Avere seating themselves. I withdrew my eyes imme¬ 
diately, fearing lest I had violated some prrtacy. Our conductor said to 
us, “ That is the upper servants’ dining room.” 

Once in the yard again, Ave Avent to see some of the older parts of the 
building. The oldest of these, Caesar’s ToAver, which is said to go back to 
the time of the Romans, is not noAV shoAvn to visitors. Reneath it is a 
dark, damp dungeon, Avhere prisoners used to be confined, the walls of 
which are traced all OA’er with inscriptions and rude draAvings. 

Then you are conducted to Guy’s Tower, named, I suppose, after the 
hero of the green dragon and dun coav. Here are five tiers of guard rooms, 
and by the ascent of a hundred and thirty-three steps you reach the battle¬ 
ments, where you gain a vieAv of the whole court and grounds, as Avell as 
of the beautiful surrounding landscape. 

In coming down from this toAver, avc somehow or other got upon the 
ramparts, which connect it Avith the great gate. We walked on the Avail 
four abreast, and played that we Avere knights and ladies of the olden 
time, Avalking on the ramparts. And I picked a bough from an old pine 
tree that greAv over our heads; it much resembled our American yelloAV 
pitch pine. 

Then Ave went down and crossed the grounds to the greenhouse, to see 
the famous Warwick vase. The greenhouse is built with a Gothic stone 
front, situated on a fine point in the landscape. And there, on a pedestal, 
surrounded by all manner of floAvering shrubs, stands this celebrated 
antique. It is of white marble, and was found at the bottom of a lake 
near Adrian’s villa, in Italy. They say that it holds a hundred and thirty- 
six gallons; constructed, I suppose, in the roistering old drinking times of 
tire Roman emperors, when men seem to have discovered that the grand 

K 


114 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANES. 

object for which they were sent into existence was to perform the functions 
of wine skins. It is beautifully sculptured with grape leaves, and the 
skin and claws of the panther—these latter certainly not an inappropriate 
emblem of the god of wine, beautiful, but dangerous. 

Well, now it was all done. Merodach Baladan had not a more perfect 
expose of the riches of Ilezekiah than we had of the glories of Warwick. 
Cne always likes to see the most perfect thing of its kind; and probably 
this is the most perfect specimen of the feudal ages yet remaining in 
England. 

As I stood with Joseph Sturge under the old cedars of Lebanon, and 
watched the multitude of tourists, and parties of pleasure, who were 
thronging the walks, I said to him, “After all, this establishment 
amounts to a public museum and pleasure grounds for the use of the 
people.” He assented. “And,” said I, “ you English people like these 
things ; you like these old magnificent scats, kept up by old families.” 
“That is what I tell them,” said Joseph Sturge. “I tell them there is 
no danger in enlarging the suffrage, for the people would not break up 
these old establishments if they could.” On that point, of course, I had 
no means of formng an opinion. 

One cannot view an institution so unlike any thing we have in cur own 
country without having many reflections excited, for one of these estates 
rnay justly be called an institution ; it includes within itself all the 
influence on a community of a great model farm, of model housekeeping, 
of a general museum of historic remains, and of a gallery of fine arts. 

It is a fact that all these establishments through England are, at certain 
fixed hours, thrown open for the inspection of whoever may choose to visit 
them, with no other expense than the gratuity which custom requires to 
be given to the servant who shows them. I noticed, as we passed from 
one part of the ground to another, that our guides changed—one part 
apparently being the perquisite of one servant, and one of another. Many 
of the servants who showed them appeared to be superannuated men, who 
probably had this post as one of the dignities and perquisites of their old age. 

The influence of these estates on the community cannot but be in many 
respects beneficial, and should go some way to qualify the prejudice with 
which republicans are apt to contemplate anything aristocratic ; for al¬ 
though the legal title to these things inheres in but one man, yet in a very 
important sense they belong to the whole community, indeed, to universal 
humanity. It may be very undesirable and unwise to wish to imitate these 
institutions in America, and yet it may be illiberal to undervalue them jsj 
they stand in England. A man would not build a house, in this ninetcenia 
century, on the pattern of a feudal castle ; and yet, where the feudal castle 
is built, surely its antique grace might plead somewhat in its favour, and 
it may be better to accommodate it to modem uses, than to level it, and 
erect a modern mansion in its place. 

Nor, since the world is wide, and now being rapidly united by steam intd 
one country, does the objection -to these things, on account of the room they 
take up, seem so great as formerly. In the million of square miles of ths 
globe there is room enough for all sorts of things. 

With such reflections the lover of the picturesque may comfort himself, 
hoping that he is not sinning against the useful in his admiration of the 
beautiful. 


WARWICK. 


115 

One great achievement of the millennium, I trust, will be in uniting 
these two elements, which have ever been contending. There was great 
significance in the old Greek fable which represented Yenus as the di¬ 
vinely-appointed helpmeet of Vulcan, and yet always quarrelling with 
him. 

We can scarcely look at the struggling, earth-bound condition of useful 
labour through the world, without joining in the beautiful aspiration of our 
American poet,— 

“ Surely, the wiser time shall come 
When this fine overplus of might, 

No longer sullen, slow, and dumb. 

Shall leap to music and to light. „ 

“ In that new childhood of the world 
Life of itself shall dance and play, 

Fresh blood through Time’s shrunk veins be hurled. 

And labour meet delight half way.” * 

In the new state of society which we are trying to found in America, it 
must be our effort to hasten the consummation. These great estates of old 
countries may keep it for their share of the matter to work out perfect 
models, while we will seize the ideas thus elaborated, and make them the 
property of the million. 

As we were going out, we stopped a little while at the porter’s lodge to 
look at some relics. 

Now, I dare say that you have been thinking, all the while, that these 
stories about the wonderful Guy are a sheer fabrication, or, to use a con¬ 
venient modern term, a myth. Know, then, that the identical armour 
belonging to him is still preserved here ; to wit, the sword, about seven 
feet long, a shield, helmet, breastplate, and tilting-pole, together with his 
porridge pot, which holds one hundred and twenty gallons, and a large fork, 
as they call it, about three feet long ; I am inclined to think this must have 
been his toothpick ! His sword weighs twenty pounds. 

There is, moreover, a rib of the mastodon cow which he killed, hung up 
for the terror of all refractory beasts of that name in modern days. 

Furthermore, know, then, that there are authentic documents in the 
Ashmolean Museum, at Oxford, showing that the family run hack to within 
four years after the birth of Christ, so that there is abundance of time for 
them to have done a little of almost everything. It appears that they have 
been always addicted to exploits, since we read of one of them, soon after 
the Christian era, encountering a giant, who ran upon him with a tree 
V nidi he had snapped off for the purpose, for it seems giants were not nice 
in the choice of weapons ; hut tlie chronicler says, “ The Lord had grace 
with him, and overcame the giant,” and in commemoration of this event 
the family introduced into their arms the ragged staff'. 

It is recorded of another of the race,* that he was one of seven children 
horn at a birth, and that all the rest of his brothers and sisters were, by 
enchantment, turned into swans with gold collars. This remarkable case 
occurred m the time of the grandfather of Sir Guy, and of course, if we 
believe this, we shall find no difficulty in the case of the cow, or anything 
else. 

There is a very scarce book in the possession of a gentleman of Warwick, 
* James Russell Lowell’s “Beaver Brook,” 


116 SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 

written by one Dr. John Kay, or Cains, in which he gives an account cf the 
rare and peculiar animals of England, in 1552. In this he mentioned see¬ 
ing the bones of the head and the vertebrae of the neck of an enormous animal 
at Warwick Castle. He states that the shoulder-blade was hung up by 
chains from the north gate of Coventry, and that a rib of the same animal 
was hanging up in the chapel ol Guy, Earl of Warwick, and that the people 
fancied it to be the rib of a cow which haunted a ditch near Coventry, and 
did injury to many persons ; and he goes on to imagine that this may be 
the bone of a bonassus or a urus. He says, “It is probable many animals of 
this kind formerly lived in our England, being of old an island full of woods 
and forests, because even in our boyhood the horns of these animals were in 
common use at the table.” The story of Sir Guy is furthermore quite ro¬ 
mantic, and contains some circumstances very instructive to all ladies. For 
the chronicler asserts, “that Dame Felye, daughter and heire to Erie 
Kohand, for her beauty called Fely le Belle, or Felys the Fay re, by true 
enheritance, was Countess of Warwyke, and lady and wyfe to the most vic- 
toriouse Knight, Sir Guy, to whom in his woing tyme she made greate 
straungeres, and caused him, for her sake, to put himself in meny greate 
distresses, dangers, and perills ; but when they were wedded, and b’enbut 
a little season together, lie departed from her, to her greate hevynes, and 
never was conversant with her after, to her understandinge.” That this 
may not appear to be the result of any revengeful spirit on the part of Sir 
Guy, the chronicler goes on further to state his motives—that, after his 
marriage, considering what he had done for a woman’s sake, he thought to 
spend the other part of his life fur God’s sake, and so departed from his 
lady in pilgrim weeds, which raiment he kept to his life’s end. After 
wandering about a good many years he settled in a hermitage, in a place 
not far from the castle, called Guy’s Cliff, and when his lady distributed 
food to beggars at the castle gate, was in the habit of coming among them to 
receive alms, without making himself known to her. It states, moreover, 
that two days before his death an angel informed him of the time of his de¬ 
parture, and that his lady would die a fortnight after him, which 
happening accordingly, they were both buried in the grave together. 
A romantic cavern, at the place called Guy’s Cliff, is shown as the dwelling 
of the recluse. The story is a curious relic of the religious ideas of the 
times. 

On our way from the castle we passed by Guy’s Cliff, which is at present 
the seat of the Hon, C. B. Percy. The establishment looked beautifully 
from the road, as we saw it up a long avenue of trees; it is one of the 
places travellers generally examine, but as we were bound for Kenilworth, 
we were content to take it on trust. It is but a short drive from there to 
Kenilworth. We got there about the middle of the afternoon. Kenilworth 
has been quite as extensive as Warwick, though now entirely gone to 
ruins. I believe Oliver Cromwell’s army have the credit of finally dis¬ 
mantling it. Cromwell seems literally to have left his mark on his genera¬ 
tion, for I never saw a ruin in England when I did not hear that he had 
something to do with it. Every broken arch and ruined battlement seemed 
always to find a sufficient account of itself by simply enunciating the word 
Cromwell. And when we see how much the Puritans arrayed against 
themselves all the aesthetic principles of our nature, we can somewhat 
pardon those who did not look deeper than the surface, for the prejudice 
with which they regarded the whole movement; a movement, however, of 





KENILWORTH. 117 

tvliicli we, and all which is most precious to us, are tlie lineal descendants 
and heirs. 

We wandered over the ruins, which are very extensive, and which Scott, 
with his usual vivacity and accuracy, has restored and repeopled. We 
climbed up into Amy Robsart’s chamber; we scrambled into one of the 
arched windows of what was formerly the great dining hall, where Elizabeth 
feasted in the midst of her lords and ladies, and where every stone had 
rang to the sound of merriment ancl revelry. The windows are broken 
out; it is roofless and floorless, waving and rustling with pendent ivy, and 
vocal with the song of hundreds of little birds. 

We wandered from room to room, looking up and seeing in the walls the 
desolate fireplaces, tier over tier, the places where the beams of the floors 
had gone into the walls, and still the birds continued their singing every¬ 
where. 

Nothing affected me more than this ceaseless singing and rejoicing of 
birds in these old gray ruins. They seemed so perfectly joyous and happy 
amid the desolations, so airy and fanciful in their bursts of song, so ignorant 
and careless of the deep meaning of the gray desolation around them, that 
I could not but be moved. It was nothing to them how these stately, 
sculptured walls became lonely and ruinous, and all the weight of a 
thousand thoughts and questionings which arise to us is never even dreamed 
by them. They sow not, neither do they reap, but their heavenly Father 
feeds them; and so the wilderness and the desolate place is glad in them, 
and they are glad in the wilderness and desolate place. 

It was a beautiful conception, this making of birds. Shelley calls them 
“imbodied joys;’’and Christ says, that amid the vaster ruins of man’s 
desolation, ruins more dreadfully suggestive than those of sculptured frieze 
and architrave, we can yet live a bird’s life of unanxious joy; or, as 
Martin Luther beautifully paraphrases it, “We can be like a bii'd that sits 
singing on his twig and lets Grod think for him.” 

The deep consciousness that we are ourselves ruined, and that this world 
is a desolation more awful, and of more sublime material, and wrought 
from stuff of higher temper than ever was sculptured in hall or cathedral, 
this it must be that touches such deep springs of sympathy in the presence 
of ruins. We, too, are desolate, shattered, and scathed; there are traceries 
and columns of celestial workmanship; there are heaven-aspiring arches, 
splendid colonnades and halls, but fragmentary all. Yet above us bends 
an all-pitying Heaven, and spiritual voices and callings in our hearts, like 
these little singing birds, speak of a time when almighty power shall take 
pleasure in these stones, and favour the dust thereof. 

We sat on the top of the strong tower, and looked off into the country, 
and talked a good while, Some of the ivy that mantles this building has 
a trunk as large as a man’s body, and throws out numberless strong arms, 
which, interweaving, embrace and ..interlace half-falling towers, and hold 
them up in a living, growing mass of green. 

The walls of one of the oldest towers are sixteen feet thick. The lake, 
which Scof£ speaks of, is dried up and grown over with rushes. The 
former moat presents only a grassy hollow. What was formerly a gate 
house is still inhabited by the family who have the care of the building. 
The land around the gate house is choicely and carefully laid out, and has 
high, clipped hedges of a species of variegated holly. 

Thus much of old castles and ivy. Farewell to Kenilworth. 


118 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


LETTER XII. 

COVENTBY.—SIBYL JONES.—J. A. . T AAIES. 

My dear II. :— 

After leaving Kenilworth we drove to Coventry, where we took the cars 
again. This whole ride from Stratford to Warwick, and on to Coventry, 
answers more to my ideas of old England than any thing I have seen ; it is 
considered one of the most beautiful parts of the kingdom. It has quaint 
old houses, and a certain air of rural, picturesque quiet, which is very 
charming. 

Coventry is old and queer, with narrow streets and curious houses, famed 
for the ancient legend of Grodiva, one of those beautiful myths that grow, 
Vke the mistletoe, on the bare branches of history, and which, if they never 
rere true in the letter, have been a thousand times true in the spirit. 

The evening came on raw and chilly, so that we rejoiced to find ourselves 
once more in the curtained parlour by the bright, sociable fire. 

As we were drinking tea Elihu Burritt came in. It was the first time I 
had ever seen him, though I had heard a great deal of him from our friends 
in Edinburgh. He is a man in middle life, tall and slender, with fair 
complexion, blue eyes, an air of delicacy and refinement, and manners of 
great gentleness. My ideas of the “Learned Blacksmith” had been of 
something altogether more ponderous and peremptory. Elihu has been, 
for some years, operating in England and on the continent in a movement 
which many, in our half-Christianized times, regard with as much incredu¬ 
lity as the grim, old warlike barons did the suspicious imbecilities of read¬ 
ing and writing. The sword now, as then, seems so much more direct a 
way to terminate controversies, that many Christian men, even, cannot con¬ 
ceive how the world is to get along without it. 

Burritt’s mode of operation has been by the silent organization of circles 
of ladies in all the different towns of the United Kingdom, who raise a 
certain sum for the diffusion of the principles of peace on earth and good will 
to men. Articles, setting forth the evils of war, moral, political, and social, 
being prepared, these circles pay for their insertion in all the principal news¬ 
papers of the continent. They have secured to themselves in this way a con¬ 
tinual utterance in France, Spain, Italy, Switzerland, Austria, and Germany ; 
so that from week to week, and month to month, they can insert articles upon 
these subjects. Many times the editors insert the articles as editorial, 
which still further favours their design. In addition to this, the ladies of 
these circles in England correspond with the ladies of similar circles exist¬ 
ing in other countries ; and in this way there is a mutual kindliness of feel¬ 
ing established through these countries. 

When recently war was threatening between England and France, through 
the influence of these societies conciliatory addresses were sent from many 
of the principal towns of England to many of the principal towns of France ; 
and the effect of these measures in allaying irritation and agitation was 
very perceptible. 

Furthermore, these societies are preparing numerous little books for 
children, in which the principles of peace, kindness, and mutual forbear¬ 
ance are constantly set forth, and the evil and unchristian nature of the 
mere collision of brute force exemplified in a thousand ways. These tract* 



PEACE SOCIETIES—ANTI-SLAVERY MOVEMENT. 119 

also are reprinted in the other modern languages of Europe, and are becom¬ 
ing a part of family literature. 

The object had in view by those in this movement is, the general dis¬ 
bandment of standing armies and warlike establishments, and the arrange¬ 
ment, in their place, of some settled system of national arbitration. They 
suggest the organization of some tribunal of international law, which shall 
correspond to the position of the Supreme Court of the United States with 
reference to the several states. The fact that the several states of our 
Union, though each a distinct sovereignty, yet agree in this arrangement, is 
held up as an instance of its practicability. These ideas are not to be con¬ 
sidered entirely chimerical, if we reflect that commerce and trade are as 
essentially opposed to war as is Christianity. War is the death of com¬ 
merce, manufactures, agriculture, and the line arts. Its evil results are 
always certain and definite, its good results scattered and accidental. The 
whole current of modern society is as much against war as against slavery; 
and the time must certainly come when some more rational and humane 
mode of resolving national difficulties will prevail. 

When we ask these reformers how people are to be freed from the yoke 
of despotism without war, they answer, ‘ ‘ By the diffusion of ideas among 
the masses—by teaching the bayonets to think.” They say, “ If we con¬ 
vince every individual soldier of a despot’s army that war is ruinous, 
immoral, and unchristian, we take the instrument out of the tyrant’s 
hand. If each individual man would refuse to rob and murder for the 
Emperor of Austria, and the Emperor of Russia, where would be their 
power to hold Hungary ? What gave power to the masses in the French 
revolution, but that the army, pervaded by new ideas, refused any longer 
to keep the people down?” 

These views are daily gaining strength in England. They are supported 
by the whole body of the Quakers, who maintain them with that degree of 
inflexible perseverance and never-dying activity which have rendered the 
benevolent actions of that body so efficient. The object that they are 
aiming at is one most certain to be accomplished, infallible as the predic¬ 
tion that swords are to be beaten into ploughshares, and spears into 
pruning-hooks, and that nations shall learn war no more. 

This movement, small and despised in its origin, has gained strength 
from year to year, and now has an effect on the public opinion of England 
which is quite perceptible. 

We spent the evening in talking over these things, and also various topics 
relating to the anti-slavery movement. Mr. Sturge was very confident 
that something more was to be done than had ever been done yet, by 
combinations for the encouragement of free, in the place of slave-grown, 
produce; a question which has, ever since the days of Clarkson, more or 
less deeply occupied the minds of abolitionists in England. 

I should say that Mr. Sturge in his family has for many years conscien¬ 
tiously forborne the use of any article produced by slave labour. I could 
scarcely believe it possible that there could be such an abundance and 
variety of all that is comfortable and desirable in the various departments 
of household living within these limits. Mr. Sturge presents the subject 
with very great force, the more so from the consistency of his example. 

From what I have since observed, as well as from what they said, I 
should imagine that the Quakers generally pursue this course of entire 


120 


GUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


separation from all connection witli slavery, even in the disuse of its products. 
The subject of the disuse of slave-grown produce has obtained currency in 
the same sphere in which Elihu Burritt operates, and has excited the 
attention of the Olive Leaf Circles. Its prospects are not so weak as on 
first view might be imagined, if we consider that Great Britain has large 
tracts of cotton-growing land at her disposal in India. It has been calcu¬ 
lated that, were suitable railroads and arrangements for transportation 
provided for India, cotton could be raised in that empire sufficient for the 
whole wants of England, at a rate much cheaper than it can be imported 
from America. Not only so, but they could then afford to furnish cotton 
cheaper at Lowell than the same article could be procured from the 
Southern States. 

It is consolatory to know that a set of men have undertaken this work 
whose perseverance in anything once begun has never been daunted. Slave 
labour is becoming every year more expensive in America. The wide 
market which has been opened for it has raised it to such an extravagant 
price as makes the stocking of a plantation almost ruinous. If England 
enters the race with free labour, which has none of these expenses, and 
none of the risk, she will be sure to succeed. All the forces of nature go 
with free labour; and all the forces of nature resist slave labour. The stars 
in their courses fight against it; and it cannot but be that ere long some 
way will be found to bring these two forces to a decisive issue. 

Mr. Sturge seemed exceedingly anxious that the American states should 
adopt the theory of immediate, and not gradual, emancipation. I told him 
the great difficulty was to persuade them to think of any emancipation at 
all; that the present disposition was to treat slavery as the pillar and 
ground of the truth, the ark of religion, the summary of morals, and the 
only true millennial form of modern society. 

He gave me, however, a little account of their anti-slavery struggles in 
England, and said, what was well worthy of note, that they made no appa¬ 
rent progress in affecting public opinion, until they firmly advocated the 
right of every innocent being to immediate and complete freedom, without 
any conditions. He said that a woman is fairly entitled to the credit of 
this suggestion. Elizabeth Heyrick, of Leicester, a member of the Society 
of Friends, published a pamphlet entitled “ Immediate, not Gradual 
Emancipation.” This little pamphlet contains much good sense; and, 
being put forth at a time when men were really anxious to know the truth, 
produced a powerful impression. 

She remarked, very sensibly, that the difficulty had arisen from indis¬ 
tinct ideas in respect to what is implied in emancipation. She went on to 
show that emancipation did not imply freedom from government and 
restraint; that it properly brought a slave under the control of the law, 
instead of that of an individual; and that it was possible so to apply law 
as perfectly to control the emancipated. This is an idea which seems 
simple enough when pointed out; but men often stumble a long while 
before they discover what is most obvious. 

The next day was Sunday ; and, in order to preserve our incognito, and 
secure an uninterrupted rest, free from conversation and excitement, we 
were obliged to deprive ourselves of the pleasure of hearing our friend Rev. 
John Angell James, which we had much desired to do. 

It was a warm pleasant day, and we spent much of our time in a beau- 










SIBYL JOKES. 121 

tiful arbour, constructed in a retired place in the garden, where the trees 
and shrubbery were so arranged as to make a most charming retreat. 

The grounds of Mr, Sturge are very near to those of his brother— 
only a narrow road interposing between them. They have contrived to 
make them one by building under this road a subterranean passage, so 
that the two families can pass and repass into each other’s grounds in. 
perfect privacy. 

These English gardens delight me much; they unite variety, quaintness, 
and an imitation of the wildness of nature, with the utmost care and 
cultivation. I was particularly pleased with the rockwork, which at 
times formed the walls of certain walks, the hollows and interstices of 
which were filled with every variety of creeping plants. Mr. Sturge told 
me that the substance of which these rockeries are made is sold expressly 
for the purpose. 

On one side of the grounds was an old-fashioned cottage, which one of 
my friends informed me Mr. Sturge formerly kept fitted up as a water-cure 
hospital, for those whose means did not allow them to go to larger establish¬ 
ments. The plan was afterwards abandoned. One must see that such an 
enterprise would have many practical difficulties. 

At noon we dined in the house of the other brother, Mr. Edmund 
Sturge. Here I noticed a full-length engraving of Joseph Sturge. He is 
represented as standing with his hand placed protectingly on the head of a 
black child. 

We enjoyed our quiet season with these two families exceedingly. We 
seemed to feel ourselves in an atmosphere where all was peace and good¬ 
will to man. The little children, after dinner, took us through the walks, 
to show us their beautiful rabbits and other pets. Everything seemed in 
order, peaceable and quiet. Towards evening we went back through the 
arched passage to the other house again. My Sunday here has always 
seemed to me a pleasant kind of pastoral, much like the communion of 
Christian and Faithful with the shepherds on the Delectable Mountains. 

What is remarkable of all these Friends is, that, although they have been 
called, in the prosecution of philanthropic enterprises, to encounter so much 
opposition, and see so much of the unfavourable side of human nature, they 
are so habitually free from any tinge of uncharitableness or evil speaking in 
their statements with regard to the character and motives of others. There 
is also an habitual avoidance of all exaggerated forms of statement, a 
sobriety of diction, which, united with great affectionateness of manner, 
inspires the warmest confidence. 

C. had been, wdth Mr. Sturge, during the afternoon, to a meeting of the 
Friends, and heard a discourse from Sibyl Jones, one of the most popular 
of their female preachers. Sibyl is a native of the town of Brunswick, in 
the State of Maine. She and her husband, being both preachers, have 
travelled extensively in the prosecution of various philanthropic and reli¬ 
gious enterprises. 

In the evening, Mr. Sturge said that she had expressed a desire to see 
me. Accordingly, I went with him to call upon her, and found her in the 
family of two aged Friends, surrounded by a circle of the same denomina¬ 
tion. She is a woman of great delicacy of appearance, betokening very 
frail health. I am told that she is most of her time in a state of extreme 
suffering from neuralgic complaints. There was a mingled expression of 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


122 


enthusiasm and tenderness in her face which was very interesting. She 
had had, according to the language of her sect, a concern upon her nnnd 
for me. 

To my mind there is something peculiarly interesting about that primitive 
simplicity and frankness with which the members of this body express 
themselves. She desired to caution me against the temptations of too much 
flattery and applause, and against the worldliness which might beset me in 
London. Her manner of addressing me was like one who is commissioned 
with a message which must be spoken with plainness and sincerity. After 
this the whole circle kneeled, and she offered prayer. I was somewhat 
painfully impressed with her evident fragility of body, compared with the 
enthusiastic workings of her mind. 

In the course of the conversation she inquired if I was going to Ireland. 

I told her, yes, that was my intention. She begged that I would visit the 
western coast, adding, with great feeling, ‘ ‘ It was the miseries which I 
saw there which have brought my health to the state it is.” She had 
travelled extensively in the Southern States, and had, in private conver¬ 
sation, been able very fully to bear her witness against slavery, and had 
never been heard with unkindness. 

The whole incident afforded me matter for reflection. The calling of 
women to distinct religious vocations, it appears to me, was a part of 
primitive Christianity; has been one of the most efficient elements of power 
in the Romish church; obtained among the Methodists in England; and 
has, in all these cases, been productive of much good. The deaconesses 
whom the apostle mentions with honour in his epistle, Madame Gruyon in 
the Romish church, Mrs. Fletcher, Elizabeth Fry, are instances which 
show how much may be done for mankind by women who feel themselves 
impelled to a special religious vocation. 

The Bible, which always favours liberal development, countenances this 
idea, by the instances of Deborah, Anna the prophetess, and by allusions in 
the New Testament, which plainly show that the prophetic gift descended 
upon women. St. Peter, quoting from the prophetic writings, says, ‘ ‘ Upon 
your sons and upon your daughters I will pour out my Spirit, and they shall 
prophesy.” And St. Paul alludes to women praying and prophesying in 
the public assemblies of the Christians, and only enjoins that it should be 
done with becoming attention to the established usages of female delicacy. 
The example of the Quakers is a sufficient proof that acting upon this idea 
does not produce discord and domestic disorder. No class of people are 
more remarkable for quietness and propriety of deportment, and for house¬ 
hold order and domestic excellence. By the admission of this liberty, the 
world is now and then gifted with a woman like Elizabeth Fry, while the 
family state loses none of its security and sacredness. No one in our day can 
charge the ladies of the Quaker sect with boldness or indecorum ; and they 
have demonstrated that even public teaching, when performed under the 
influence of an overpowering devotional spirit, does not interfere with 
feminine propriety and modesty. 

The fact is, that the number of women to whom this vocation is given 
will always be comparatively few: they are, and generally will be, excep¬ 
tions; and the majority of the religious world, ancient and modern, has 
decided that these exceptions are to be treated with reverence. 

The next morning, as we were sitting down to breakfast our friends of 













J. A. JAMES. 


123 


the other house sent in to me a plate of the largest, finest strawberries I 
have ever seen, which, considering that it was only the latter part of April, 
seemed to me quite an astonishing luxury. 

On the morning before we left we had agreed to meet a circle of friends 
from Birmingham, consisting of the Abolition Society there, which is of 
long standing, extending back in its memories to the very commencement 
of the agitation under Clarkson and Wilberforce. It was a pleasant 
morning, the 1st of May. The windows of the parlour were opened to 
the ground ; and the company invited filled not only the room, but stood 
in a crowd on the grass around the window. Among the peaceable com¬ 
pany present was an admiral in the navy, a fine, cheerful old gentleman, 
who entered with hearty interest into the scene. 

The lady secretary of the society read a neatly-written address, full of 
kind feeling and Christian sentiment. Joseph Sturge made a few sensible 
and practical remarks on the present aspects of the anti-slavery cause in the 
world, and the most practical mode of assisting it among English Christians. 
He dwelt particularly on the encouragement of free labour. The Rev. John 
Angell James followed with some extremely kind and interesting remarks, 
and Mr. S. replied. As we were intending to return to this city to make a 
longer visit, we felt that this interview was but a glimpse of friends whom 
we hoped to know more perfectly hereafter. 

A throng of friends accompanied us to the dep6t. We had the pleasure 
of the company of Elihu Burritt, and enjoyed a delightful run to London, 
where we arrived towards evening. 


• LETTER XIII. 

IOXDOX.—LORD MAYOR’S DIXNER. 

Dear Sister :— 

At the station-house in London, we found Revs. Messrs. Binney and Sher¬ 
man waiting for us with carriages. C. went with Mr. Sherman, and 
Mr. S. and I soon found ourselves in a charming retreat, called Rose 
Cottage, in Walworth, about which I will tell you more anon. Mrs. B. 
received us with every attention which the most thoughtful hospitality 
could suggest. 

S. andW., who had gone on before us, and taken lodgings very near, 
were there waiting to receive us. One of the first things S. said to me, 

after we got into our room, was, “ 0, II-, we are so glad you have 

come, for we are all going to the lord mayor’s dinner to-night, and you are 
invited.” 

“ What!” said I, “the lord mayor of London, that I used to read about 
in Whittington and his Cat?” And immediately there came to my ears the 
sound of the old chime; which made so powerful an impression on my 
childish memory, wherein all the bells of London were represented as 
tolling, 

“ Turn again, Whittington, 

Thrice lord mayor of London.” 

It is curious what an influence these old rhymes have on our associations. 

S. went on to tell me that the party was the annual dinner given to the 
judges of England by the lord mayor, and that there we should see the 




SIINNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


124 


whole English bar, and hosts of distivguSs besides. So, though I was 
tired, I hurried to dress in all the glee of meeting an adventure, as Mr. 
and Mrs. 13. and the rest of the party were ready. Crack went the whip, 
round went the wheels, and away we drove. 

We alighted at the Mansion House, and entered a large illuminated hall, 
supported by pillars. Chandeliers were glittering, servants with powdered 
heads and gold lace coats were hurrying to and fro in every direction, 
receiving company and announcing names. Do you want to know how 
announcing is done ? Well, suppose a staircase, a hall, and two or three 
corridors, intervening between you and the drawing-room. At all conve¬ 
nient distances on this route are stationed these grave, powdered-headed 
gentlemen, with their embroidered coats. You walk up to the first one, 
and tell him confidentially that you are Miss Smith. He calls to the man on 
the first landing, “Miss Smith.” The man on the landing says to the man 
in the corridor, “Miss Smith.” The man in the corridor shouts to the 
man at the drawing-room door, “Miss Smith.” And thus, following the 
sound of your name, you hear it for the last time shouted aloud, just 
before you enter the room. 

We found a considerable throng, and I was glad to accept a seat which 
was offered me in the agreeable vicinity of the lady mayoress, so that I 
might see what would be interesting to me of the ceremonial. 

The titles in law here, as in everything else, are manifold; and the 
powdered-lieaded gentleman at the door pronounced them with an evident 
relish, which was joyous to hear—Mr. Attorney, Mr. Solicitor, and Mr. 
Sei'jeant; Lord Chief Baron, Lord Chief Justice, and Lord this, and Lord 
that, and Lord the other, more than I could possibly remember, as in they 
came, dressed in black, with smallclothes and silk stockings, with swords 
by their sides, and little cocked hats under theii arms, bowing gracefully 
before the lady mayoress. 

I saw no big wigs, but some wore the hair tied behind with a small black 
silk bag attached to it. Some of the principal men were dressed in black 
velvet, which became them finely. Some had broad shirt frills of point or 
Mechlin lace, with wide ruffles of the same round their wrists. 

Poor C., barbarian that he was, and utterly unawai-e of the priceless 
gentility of the thing, said to me, sotto voce , “How can men wear such 
dirty stuff? Why don’t they wash it?” I expounded to him what an 
ignorant sinner he was, and that the dirt of ages was one of the surest 
indications of value. Wash point lace ! it would be as bad as cleaning up 
the antiquary’s study. 

The ladies were in full dress, which here in England means always a 
dress which exposes the neck and shoulders. This requirement seems to 
be universal, since ladies of all ages conform to it. It may, perhaps, account 
for this custom, to say that the bust of an English lady is seldom otherwise 
than fine, and develops a full outline at what we should call quite an ad¬ 
vanced period of life. 

A very dignified gentleman, dressed in black velvet, with a fine head, 
made his way through the throng, and sat down by me, introducing him¬ 
self as Lord Chief Bai'on Pollock. He told me he had just been reading 
the legal part of the Key to Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and remarked especially 
on the opinion of Judge Puffin, in the case of State v. Mann, as having 
made a deep impression on his mind. Of the character of the decision, 


i 













LORD MAYOR’S DINNER. 


125 

considered as a legal and literary document, lie spoke in terms of higli 
admiration; said that nothing had ever given him so clear a view of the 
essential nature ot slavery. We found that this document had produced 
the same impression on the minds of several others present. Mr. S. said 
that one or two distinguished legal gentlemen mentioned it to him in similar 
terms. The talent and force displayed in it, as well as the high spirit and 
scorn of dissimulation, appear to have created a strong interest in its author. 
It always seemed to me that there was a certain severe strength and 
grandeur about it which approached to the heroic. One or two said that 
they were glad such a man had retired from the practice of such a system 
of law. 

Hut there was scarce a moment for conversation amid the whirl and eddy 
of so many presentations. Before the company had all assembled, the 
room was a perfect jam of legal and literary notabilities. The dinner was 
announced between nine and ten o’clock. We were conducted into a splendid 
hall, where the tables were laid. Four long tables were set parallel with 
the length of the hall, and one on a raised platform across the upper end. 
In the midst of this sat the lord mayor and lady mayoress, on their right 
hand the judges, on their left the American minister, with other distin¬ 
guished guests. I sat by a most agreeable and interesting young lady, who 
seemed to take pleasure in enlightening me on all those matters about which 
a stranger would natux'ally be inquisitive. 

Directly opposite me was Mr. Dickens, whom I now beheld for the 
first time, and was surprised to see looking so young. Mr. Justice Talfourd, 
known as the author of Ion, was also there with his lady. She had a 
beautiful antique cast of head. 

The lord mayor was simply dressed in black, without any other adorn¬ 
ment than a massive gold chain. 

I asked the lady if he had not robes of state. She replied, yes; but 
they were very heavy and cumbersome, and that he never wore them when 
he could, with any propriety, avoid it. It seems to me that this matter of 
outward parade and state is gradually losing its hold even here in England. 
As society becomes enlightened, men care less and less for mere shows, and 
are apt to neglect those outward forms which have neither beauty nor con¬ 
venience on their side, such as judges’ wigs and lord mayors’ robes. 

As a general thing the company were more plainly dressed than I had 
expected. I am really glad that there is a movement being made to carry 
the doctrine of plain dress into our diplomatic representation. Even older 
nations are becoming tired of mere shows; and, certainly, the representa¬ 
tives of a republic ought not to begin to put on the finery which monarchies 
are beginning to cast off. 

The present lord mayor is a member of the House of Commons—a most 
liberal-minded man; verysimple, but pleasing in his appearance and address; 
one who seems to think more of essentials than of show. 

He is a dissenter, being a member of Rev. Mr. Binney’s church, a man 
warmly interested in the promotion of Sabbath schools, and every worthy 
and benevolent object. 

The ceremonies of the dinner were long and weary, and, I thought, 
seemed to be more fully entered into by a flourishing official, who stood at 
the mayor’s back, than by any othei person present. 

The business of toast-drinking is .educed to the nicest system. A regular 


126 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


official, called a toast-master, stood behind the lord mayor with a paper, 
from which he read the toasts in their order. Every one, according to his 
several rank, pretensions, and station, must he toasted in his gradation; 
and every person toasted must have his name announced by the official,— 
the larger dignitaries being proposed alone in their glory, while the smaller 
fry were read out by the dozen,—and to each toast somebody must get up 
and make a speech. 

First, after the usual loyal toasts, the lord mayor proposed the health of 
the American minister, expressing himself in the warmest terms of friend¬ 
ship towards our country; to which Mr. Ingersoll responded very hand¬ 
somely. Among the speakers I was particularly pleased with Lord Chief 
Laron Pollock, who, in the absence of Lord Chief Justice Campbell, was 
toasted as the highest representative of the legal profession. He spoke with 
great dignity, simplicity, and courtesy, taking occasion to pay very flatter¬ 
ing compliments to the American legal profession, speaking particularly of 
Judge Story. The compliment gave me great pleasure, because it seemed a 
just and noble-minded appreciation, and not a mere civil fiction. We are 
always better pleased with appreciation than flattery, though perhaps he 
strained a point when he said, ‘ ‘ Our brethren on "the other side of the 
Atlantic, with whom we are now exchanging legal authorities, I fear 
largely surpass us in the production of philosophic and comprehensive 
forms.” 

Speaking of the two countries he said, “ God forbid that, with a common 
language, with common laws which we are materially improving for the 
benefit of mankind, with one common literature, with one common religion, 
and above all with one common love of liberty, God forbid that any feeling 
should arise between the two countries but the desire to carry through the 
world these advantages.” 

Mr. Justice Talfourd proposed the literature of our two countries, under 
the head of “Anglo-Saxon Literature.” He made allusion to the author 
of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Mr. Dickens, speaking of both as having em¬ 
ployed fiction as a means of awakening the attention of the respective 
countries to the condition of the oppressed and suffering classes. Mr. Tal¬ 
fourd appears to be in the prime of life, of a robust and somewhat florid 
habit. He is universally beloved for his nobleness of soul and generous 
interest in all that tends to promote the welfare of humanity, no less than 
for his classical and scholarly attainments. 

Mr. Dickens replied to this toast in a graceful and playful strain. In 
the former part of the evening, in reply to a toast on the chancery depart¬ 
ment, Vice-Chancellor Wood, who spoke in the absence of the lord chan¬ 
cellor, made a sort of defence of the Court of Chancery, not distinctly 
alluding to Bleak House, but evidently not without reference to it. The 
amount of what he said was, that the court had received a great many more 
hard opinions than it merited; that they had been parsimoniously obliged 
to perform a great amount of business by a vei-y inadequate number of 
judges; but that more recently the number of judges had been increased to 
seven, and there was reason to hope that all business brought before it 
would now be performed without unnecessary delay. 

In the conclusion of Mr. Dickens's speech he alluded playfully to this 
Jem of intelligence; said he was exceedingly happy to hear it, as he trusted 















LORD MAYOR’S DINNER. 


127 

now that a suit, in which he was greatly interested, would speedily come to 
an end. I heard a little by-conversation between Mr. Dickens and a gen¬ 
tleman of the bar, who sat opposite me, in which the latter seemed to be 
reiterating the same assertions, and I understood him to say, that a case not 
extraordinarily complicated might be got through with in three months. 
Mr. Dickens said he was very happy to hear it; but I fancied there was a 
little shade of incredulity in his manner; however, the incident showed one 
thing, that is, that the chancery were not insensible to the representations 
of Dickens; but the whole tone of the thing was quite good-natured and 
agreeable. In this respect, I must say I think the English are quite 
remarkable. Every thing here meets the very freest handling; nothing is 
too sacred to be publicly shown up; but those who are exhibited appear to 
have too much good sense to recognise the force of the picture by getting 
angry. Mr. Dickens has gone on unmercifully exposing all sorts of weak 
places in the English fabric, public and private, yet nobody cries out upon 
him as the slanderer of his country. He serves up Lord Dedlocks to his 
heart’s content, yet none of the nobility make wry faces about it; nobody is 
in a hurry to proclaim that he has recognised the picture, by getting into a 
passion at it. The contrast between the people of England and America, 
in this respect, is rather unfavourable to us. because they are by profession 
conservative, and we by profession radical. 

For us to be annoyed when any of our institutions are commented upon, 
is in the highest degree absurd; it would do well enough for Naples, but it 
does not do for America. 

There were some curious old customs observed at this dinner which 
interested me as peculiar. About the middle of the feast, the official who 
performed all the announcing made the declaration that the lord mayor and 
lady mayoress would pledge the guests in a loving cup. They theu rose, 
and the official presented them with a massive gold cup, full of wine, in 
which they pledged the guests. It then passed down the table, and the 
guests rose, two and two, each tasting and presenting to the other. My 
fair informant told me that this was a custom which had come down from 
the most ancient time. 

The banquet was enlivened at intervals by songs from professional singers, 
hired for the occasion. After the banquet was over, massive gold basins, 
filled with rose water, slid along down the table, into which the guests 
dipped their napkins—an improvement, I suppose, on the doctrine of finger 
glasses, or perhaps the primeval form of the custom. 

We rose from table between eleven and twelve o’clock—that is, we ladies 
—and went into the drawing-room, where I was presented to Mrs. Dickens 
and several other ladies. Mrs. Dickens is a good specimen of a truly 
English woman; tall, large, and well developed, with fine, healthy colour, 
and an air of frankness, cheerfulness, and reliability. A friend whispered 
to me that she was as observing, and fond of humour, as her husband. 

After a while the gentlemen came back to the drawing-room, and I had 
a few moments of very pleasant, friendly conversation with Mr. Dickens. 
They ai'e both people that one could not know a little of without desiring to 
know more. 

I had some conversation with the lady mayoress. She said she had been 
invited to meet me at Stafford House on Saturday, but should be unable to 


128 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

attend, as she had called a meeting on the same day of the city ladies, for 
considering the condition of milliners and dressmakers, and to form a 
society for their relief to act in conjunction with that of the V est End. 

After a little we began to talk of separating; the lord mayor to take his 
seat in the House of Commons, and the rest of the party to any other en¬ 
gagement that might be upon their list. 

“ Come, let us go to the House of Commons,” said one of my friends, 
“ and make a night of it.” “With all my heart,” replied I, “ if I only 
nad another body to go into to-morrow.” 

What a convenience in sight-seeing it would be if one could have a relay 
of bodies, as of clothes, and go from one into the other. But we, not used 
to the London style of turning night into day, are full weary already; so, 
good night. 


LETTER XIV. 

LONDON.—DINNER WITH THE EARL OF CARLISLE. 

Rose Cottage, Walworth, London, May 2. 

My dear-:— 

This morning Mrs. Follen called, and we had quite a long chat together. 
We are separated~by the whole city. She lives at West End, while I am down 
here in Walworth, which is one of the postscripts of London ; for London 
has as many postscripts as a lady’s letter—little suburban villages which 
have been overtaken by the growth of the city, and embraced in its arms. 
I like them a great deal better than the city, for my part. 

Here now, for instance, at Walworth, I can look out at a window and 
see a nice green meadow with sheep and lambs feeding in it, which is some 
relief in this smutty old place. London is as smutty as Pittsburg or 
Wheeling. It takes a good hour’s steady riding to get from here to West 
End; so that my American friends, of the newspapers, who are afraid I 
shall be corrupted by aristocratic associations, will see that I am at safe 
distance. 

This evening we are appointed to dine with the Earl of Carlisle. There 
is to be no company but his own family circle, for he, with great considera¬ 
tion, said in his note, that he thought a little quiet would be the best 
thing he could offer. Lord Carlisle is a great friend to America; and so is 
his sister, the Duchess of Sutherland. He is the only English traveller 
who ever wrote notes on our country in a real spirit of appreciation. While 
the Halls, and Trollopes, and all the rest could see nothing but our break¬ 
ing eggs on the wrong end, or such matters, he discerned and interpreted 
those points wherein lies the real strength of our growing country. His 
notes on America were not very extended, being only sketches delivered as 
a lyceum lecture some years after his return. It was the spirit and quality, 
rather than quantity, of the thing that was noticeable. 

I observe that American newspapers are sneering about his preface to 
Uncle Tom’s Cabin; but they ought at least to remember that his senti¬ 
ments with regard to slavery are no sudden freak. In the first place, he 
comes of a family that has always been on the side of liberal and progres¬ 
sive principles. He himself has been a leader of reforms on the popular 
side. It was a temporary defeat, when r un as an anti-corn-law candidate. 






EARL OP CARLISLE. 


120 


which gave him leisure to travel in America. Afterwards lie had the 
satisfaction to he triumphantly returned for that district, and to see the 
measure he had advocated fully successful. 

While Lord Carlisle was in America he never disguised those antislavery 
sentiments which formed a part of his political and religious creed as an 
Englishman, and as the heir of a house always true to progress. Many 
cultivated English people have shrunk from acknowledging abolitionists in 
Boston, where the ostracism of fashion and wealth has been enforced against 
them. Lord Carlisle, though moving in the highest circle, honestly and 
openly expressed his respect for them on all occasions. He attended the 
Boston antislavery fair, which at that time was quite a decided step. Nor 
did he even in any part of our country disguise his convictions. There is, 
therefore, propriety and consistency in the course he has taken now. 

It would seem that a warm interest in questions of a public nature has 
always distinguished the ladies of this family. The Duchess of Sutherland’s 
mother is daughter of the celebrated Duchess of Devonshire, who, in her 
day, employed on the liberal side in politics, all the power of genius, wit, 
beauty, and rank. It was to the electioneering talents of herself and her 
sister, the Lady Duncannon, that Fox, at one crisis, owed his election. 
We Americans should remember that it was this party who advocated our 
cause during our revolutionary struggle. Fox and his associates pleaded 
for us with much the same arguments, and with the same earnestness and 
warmth, that American abolitionists now plead for the slaves. They stood 
against all the power of the king and cabinet, as the abolitionists in America, 
in 1850, stood against president and cabinet. 

The Duchess of Devonshire was a woman of real noble impulses and 
generous emotions, and had a true sympathy for what is free and heroic. 
Coleridge has some fine lines addressed to her,—called forth by a sonnet 
which she composed, while in Switzerland, on William Tell’s Chapel,— 
which begin,— 

“ O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure, 

Where learned’st thou that heroic measure?” 

The Duchess of Sutherland, in our times, has been known to be no less 
warmly interested on the liberal side. So great was her influence held to 
be, that upon a certain occasion when a tory cabinet was to be formed, a 
distinguished minister is reported to have said to the queen, that he could 
not hope to succeed in his administration while such a decided influence as 
that of the Duchess of Sutherland stood at the head of her Majesty’s house¬ 
hold. The queen’s spirited refusal tp surrender her favourite attendant 
attracted, at the time, universal admiration. 

Like her brother, Lord Carlisle, the Duchess of Sutherland has always 
professed those sentiments with regard to slavery which are the glory of 
the English nation, and which are held with more particular zeal by those 
families who are favourable to the progress of liberal ideas. 

At about seven o’clock we took our carriage to go to the Earl of Car¬ 
lisle’s, the dinner hour being here somewhere between eight and nine. As 
we rode on through the usual steady drizzling rain, from street to street 
and square to square, crossing Waterloo Bridge, with its avenue of lamps 
faintly visible in the seethy mist, plunging through the heart of the city, 
we began to realize something of the immense extent of London. 

K. 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


130 

Altogether the most striking objects that you pass, as you ride in the 
evening thus, are the gin shops, flaming and flaring from the most conspi¬ 
cuous positions, with plate-glass windows and dazzling lights, thronged 
with men, and women, and children, drinking destruction. Mothers go 
there with babies in their arms, and take what turns the mother’s milk to 
poison. Husbands go there, and spend the money that their children want 
for bread, and multitudes of boys and girls of the age of my own. In 
Paris and other European cities, at least the great fisher of souls baits 
with something attractive, but in these gin shops men bite at the bare, 
barbed hook. There are no garlands, no dancing, no musie, no theatricals, 
no pretence of social exhiliration, nothing but hogsheads of spirits, and 
people going in to drink. The number of them that I passed seemed to 
me absolutely appalling. 

After long driving we found ourselves coming into the precincts of the 
West End, and began to feel an indefinite sense that we were approaching 
something very grand, though I cannot say that we saw much but heavy, 
smoky-walled buildings, washed by the rain. At length we stopped in 
Grosvenor Place, and alighted. 

We were shown into an anteroom adjoining the entrance hall, and from 
that into an adjacent apartment, where we met Lord Carlisle. The room 
had a pleasant, social air, warmed and enlivened by the blaze of a coal lire 
and wax candles. 

We had never, any of us, met Lord Carlisle before; but the considerate¬ 
ness and cordiality of our reception obviated whatever embarrassment there 
might have been in this circumstance. In a few moments after we were 
all seated the servant announced the Duchess of Sutherland, and Lord 
Carlisle presented me. She is tall and stately, with a decided fulness of 
outline, and a most noble bearing. Her fair complexion, blond hair, and 
full lips speak of Saxon blood. In her early youth she might have been a 
Itowena. I thought of the lines of Wordsworth :— 


“ A perfect woman, nobly plann’d. 
To warn, to comfort, to command.’ 


Her manners have a peculiar warmth and cordiality. One sees people now 
and then who seem to radiate kindness and vitality, and to have a faculty 
of inspiring perfect confidence in a moment. There are no airs of gran¬ 
deur, no patronizing ways; but a genuine sincerity and kindliness that 
seem to come from a deep fountain within. 

The engraving by Winterhalter, which has been somewhat familiar in 
America, is as just a representation of her air and bearing as could be 
given. 

After this we were presented to the various members of the Howard 
family, which is a very numerous one. Among them were Lady Dover, 
Lady Lascelles, and Lady Labouchere, sisters of the duchess. The Earl 
of Burlington, who is the heir of the Duke of Devonshire, was also present. 
The Duke of Devonshire is the uncle of Lord Carlisle. 

The only person present not of the family connexion was my quondam 
correspondent in America, Arthur Helps. Somehow or other I had formed 
the impression from his writings that he was a venerable sage of very 
advanced years, who contemplated life as an aged hermit, from the door of 



DUKE OF ARGYLE. 


131 


his cell. Conceive my surprise to find a genial young gentleman of about 
twenty-five, who looked as if he might enjoy a joke as well as another man. 

At dinner I found myself between him and Lord Carlisle, and perceiving, 
perhaps, that the nature of my reflections was of rather an amusing order, 
he asked me confidentially if I did not like fun, to which I assented with 
fervour. I like that little homely word fun, though I understand the 
dictionary says what it represents is vulgar; but I think it has a good, 
hearty, Saxon sound, and I like Saxon better than Latin or French either. 

When the servant offered me wine, Lord Carlisle asked me if our party 
were all teetotallers, and I said yes; that in America all clergymen were 
teetotallers, of course. 

After the ladies left the table the conversation turned on the Maine law, 
which seems to be considered over here as a phenomenon in legislation, and 
many of the gentlemen present inquired about it with great curiosity. 

When we went into the drawing room I was presented to the venerable 
Countess of Carlisle, the earl’s mother; a lady universally beloved and 
revered, not less for superior traits of mind than for great loveliness and 
benevolence of character. She received us with the utmost kindness; 
kindness evidently genuine and real. 

The walls of the drawing-room were beautifully adorned with works of 
art by the best masters. There was a Rembrandt hanging over the fire¬ 
place, which showed finely by the evening light. It was simply the por¬ 
trait of a man with a broad, Flemish hat. There were one or two pictures, 
also, by Cuyp. I should think he must have studied in America, so per¬ 
fectly does he represent the golden, hazy atmosphere of our Indian summer. 

One of the ladies showed me a snuffbox on which was a picture of Lady 
Carlisle’s mother, the celebrated Duchess of Devonshire, taken when she 
was quite a little girl; a round, happy face, showing great vivacity and 
genius. On another box was an exquisitely beautiful miniature of a rela¬ 
tive of the family. 

After the gentlemen rejoined us came in the Duke and Duchess of Argyle, 
and Lord and Lady Blantyre. These ladies are the daughters of the Duchess 
of Sutherland. The Duchess of Argyle is of a slight and fairy-like figure, 
with flaxen hair and blue eyes, answering well enough to the description 
of Annot Lyle, in the Legend of Montrose. Lady Blantyre was somewhat 
taller, of fuller figure, with very brilliant bloom. Lord Blantyre is of the 
Stuart blood, a tall and slender young man, with very graceful manners. 

As to the Duke of Argyle, we found that the picture drawn of him by 
his countrymen in Scotland was every way correct. Though slight of figure, 
with fair complexion and blue eyes, his whole appearance is indicative of 
energy and vivacity. His talents and efficiency have made him a member 
of the British cabinet at a much earlier age than is usual; and he has dis¬ 
tinguished himself not only in political life, but as a writer, having given 
to the world a work on Presbyterianism, embracing an analysis of the 
ecclesiastical history of Scotland since the reformation, which is spoken of 
as written with great ability, in a most candid and liberal, spirit. 

The company soon formed themselves into little groups in different parts 
of the room. The Duchess of Sutherland, Lord Carlisle, and the Duke 
and Duchess of Argyle formed a circle, and turned the conversation upon 
American topics. The Duke of Argyle made many inquiries about our 
distinguished men, particularly of Emerson, Longfellow, and Hawthorne; 

k 2 


132 SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 

also of Prescott, who appears to he a general favourite here. I felt at the 
moment that we never value our literary men so much as when placed in a 
circle of intelligent foreigners; it is particularly so with Americans, because 
we have nothing hut our men and women to glory in—no coui't, no nobles, 
no castles, no cathedrals; except we produce distinguished specimens of 
humanity, we are nothing. . . 

The quietness of this evening circle, the charm of its kind hospitality, 
the evident air of sincerity and goodwill which pervaded everything, made 
the evening pass most delightfully to me. I had never felt myself more at 
home, even among the Quakers. Such a visit is a true rest and refresh¬ 
ment, a thousand times better than the most brilliant and glittering enter¬ 
tainment. 

At eleven o’clock, however, the carriage called, for our evening was 
drawing to its close; that of our friends, I suppose, was but just com¬ 
mencing, as London’s liveliest hours are by gaslight; but we cannot learn 
the art of turning night into day. 


LETTER XV. 

LONDON—ANNIVERSARY OP BIBLE SOCIETY—DULWICH GALLERY—DINNER WITH 
Mli. E. CROPPER—SOIREE AT REV. MR. BINNEY’S. 

May 4. 

My DEAR S.— 

This morning I felt too tired to go out anywhere; but Mr. and Mrs. 
Binney persuaded me to go just a little while in to the meeting of the Bible 
Society, for you must know' that this is anniversary week, and so besides 
the usual rush, and roar, and whirl of London, there is the confluence of 
all the religious forces in Exeter Hall. I told Mrs. B. that I w r as w r orn 
cut, and did not think I could sit through a single speech ; but she tempted 
me by a promise that I should withdraw at any moment. We had a nice 
little snug gallery near one of the doors, where I could see all over the 
house, and make a quick retreat in case of need. 

In one point English ladies certainly do carry practical industry farther 
than I ever saw' it in America. Everybody knows that an anniversary 
meeting is something of a siege, and I observed many good ladies below had 
made regular provision therefor, by bringing knitting work, sew'ing, crochet, 
or embroidery. I thought it was an improvement, and mean to recommend 
it wdien I get home. I am sure many of our Marthas in America will be 
very grateful for the custom. 

The Earl of Shaftesbury was in the chair, and I saw him now for the 
first time. He is quite a tall man, of slender figure, with a long and 
narrow face, dark hazel eyes, and very thick, auburn hair. His bearing 
was dignified and appropriate to his position. People here are somewhat 
amused by the vivacity with which American papers are exhorting Lord 
Shaftesbury to look into the factory system, and to explore the collieries, 
and in general to take care of the suffering low r er classes, as if he had been 
doing anything else for these tw r enty years past. To people who know how 
he has w r orked against wdnd and tide, in the face of opposition and obloquy, 
and how all the dreadful statistics that they quote against him were 
brought out expressly by inquiries set on foot and prosecuted by him, and 
how these same statistics have been by him reiterated in the ears of sue- 




EARL OF SHAFTESBURY. 


133 


cessive houses of Parliament till all these abuses have been reformed, as 
far as the most stringent and minute legislation can reform them,—it is 
quite amusing to hear him exhorted to consider the situation of the work¬ 
ing classes. One reason for this, perhaps, is that provoking facility in 
changing names which is incident to the English peerage. During the 
time that most of the researches and speeches on the factory system and 
collieries were made, the Earl of Shaftesbury was in the House of Commons, 
with the title of Lord Ashley, and it was not till the death of his father 
that he entered the House of Peers as Lord Shaftesbury. The contrast 
which a very staid religious paper in America has drawn between Lord 
Ashley and Lord Shaftesbury does not strike people over here as remark¬ 
ably apposite. 

In the course of the speeches on this occasion, frequent and feeling allu¬ 
sions were made to the condition of three millions of people in America 
who are prevented by legislative enactments from reading for themselves 
the word of life. I know it is not pleasant to our ministers upon the 
stage to hear such things; but is the whole moral sense of the world to 
hush its voice, the whole missionary spirit of Christianity to be restrained, 
because it is disagreeable for us to be reminded of our national sins ? At 
least, let the moral atmosphere of the world be kept pure, though it 
should be too stimulating for our diseased lungs. If oral instruction will 
do for three million slaves in America, it will do equally well in Austria, 
Italy, and Spain, and the powers that be, there, are just of the opinion 
that they are in America—that it is dangerous to have the people read the 
Bible for themselves. Thoughts of this kind were very ably set forth in 
some of the speeches. On the stage I noticed Rev. Samuel R. Ward, from 
Toronto, in Canada, a full blooded African of fine personal presence. He 
was received and treated with much cordiality by the ministerial brethren 
who surrounded him. I was sorry that I could not stay through the 
speeches, for they were quite interesting. C. thought they were the best 
he ever heard at an anniversary. I was obliged to leave after a little. 
Mr. Sherman very kindly came for us in his carriage, and took us a little 
ride into the country. 

Mrs. B. says that to-mori’ow morning we shall go out to see the Dulwich 
Grallery, a fine collection of paintings by the old masters. Now, I confess 
unto you that I have great suspicions of these old masters. Why, I wish 
to know, should none but old masters be thought anything of? Is not 
nature ever springing, ever new ? Is it not fair to conclude that all the 
mechanical assistants of painting are improved with the advance of society, 
as much as of all arts ? May not the magical tints, which are said to be a 
secret with the old masters, be the effect of time in part ? or may not 
modern artists have their secrets, as well, for future ages to study and 
admire ? Then, besides, how are we to know that our admiration of old 
masters is genuine, since we can bring our taste to anything, if we only know 
we must, and try long enough ? People never like olives the first time they 
eat them. In fact, I must confess, I have some partialities towards young 
masters, and a sort of suspicion that we are passing over better paintings 
at our side, to get at those which, though the best of their day, are not so 
good as the best of ours. I certainly do not worship the old English poets. 
With the exception of Milton and Shakespeare, there is more poetry in the 
works of the writers of the last fifty years than in all the rest together. 


134 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREION LANDS. 

Well, these are my surmises for the present; but one thing I am deter¬ 
mined—as my admiration is nothing to anybody but myself, I will keep 
some likes and dislikes of my own, and will not get up any raptures that 
do not arise of themselves. I am entirely willing to be conquered by any 
picture that has the power. I will be a non-resistant, but that is all. 

May 5. Well, we saw the Dulwich Gallery; five rooms filled with old 
masters, Murillos, Claudes, Rubens, Salvator Rosas, Titians, Cuyps, Van¬ 
dykes, and all the rest of them; probably not the best specimens of any 
one of them, but good enough to begin with. C. and I took different 
courses. I said to him, “ Now choose nine pictures simply by your eye, 
and see how far its untaught guidance will guide you within the canons of 
criticism.” When he had gone through all the rooms and marked his 
pictures, we found he had selected two by Rubens, two by Vandyke, one 
by Salvator Rosa, three by Murillo, and one by Titian. Pretty successful 
that, was it not, for a first essay? We then took the catalogue, and 
selected all the pictures of each artist one after another, in order to get an 
idea of the style of each. I had a great curiosity to see Claude Lorraine’s, 
remembering the poetical things that had been said and sung of him. I 
thought I would see if I could distinguish them by my eye without looking 
at the catalogue. I found I could do so. I knew them by a certain misty 
quality in the atmosphere. I was disappointed in them very much. 
Certainly, they were good paintings; I had nothing to object to them, 
but I profanely thought I had seen pictures by modern landscape painters as 
far excelling them as a brilliant morning excels a cool, grey day. Very 
likely the fault was all in me, but I could not help it; so I tried the 
Murillos. There was a Virgin and Child, with clouds around them. The 
virgin was a very pretty girl, such as you may see by the dozen in any 
boarding school, and the child was a pretty child. Call it the young 
mother and son, and it is a very pretty picture ; but call it Mary and the 
infant Jesus, and it is an utter failure. Not such was the Jewish princess, 
the inspired poetess and priestess, the chosen of God among all women. 

It seems to me that painting is poetry expressing itself by lines and 
colours instead of words; therefore there are two things to be considered 
in every picture : first, the quality of the idea expressed; and second, 
the quality of the language in which it is expressed. Now, with regard to 
the first, I hold that every person of cultivated taste is as good a judge of 
painting as of poetry. The second, which relates to the mode of expressing 
the conception, including drawing and colouring, with all their secrets, 
requires more study, and here our untaught perceptions must sometimes 
yield to the judgment of artists. My first question, then, when I look at 
the work of an artist, is, What sort of a mind has this man ? What has 
he to say ? And then I consider, How does he say it ? 

Now, with regard to Murillo, it appeared to me that he was a man of 
rather a mediocre mind, with nothing very high or deep to say, but that 
he was gifted with an exquisite faculty of expressing what he did say; and 
his paintings seem to me to bear an analogy to Pope’s poetry, wherein the 
power of expression is wrought to the highest point, but without freshness 
or ideality in the conception. As Pope could reproduce in most exquisite 
wording the fervent ideas of Eloisa, without the power to originate such, 
so Murillo reproduced the current and floating religious ideas of his times, 
with most exquisite perfection of art and colour, but without ideality or 


DULWICH GALLEiiY. 


135 


vitality. Tlie pictures ol his which please me most, are his beggar boys 
and flower girls, where he abandons the region of ideality, and simply 
reproduces nature. His art and colouring give an exquisite grace to such 
sketches. 

As to Vandyke, though evidently a fine painter, he is one whose mind 
does not move me. He adds nothing to my stock of thoughts—awakens 
no emotion. I know it is a fine picture, just as I have sometimes been 
conscious in church that I was hearing a fine sermon, which somehow had 
not the slightest effect upon me. 

Rubens, on the contrary, whose pictures I detested with all the energy 
of my soul, T knew and felt all the time, by the very pain he gave me, to 
be a real living artist. There was a Venus and Cupid there, as fat and 
as coarse as they could be, but so freely drawn, and so masterly in their 
expression and handling, that one must feel that they were by an artist 
who could just as easily have painted them any other way if it had suited 
his sovereign pleasure, and therefore we are the more vexed with him. 
When your taste is crossed by a clever person, it always vexes you more 
than when it is done by a stupid one, because it is done with such power 
that there is less hope for you. 

There were a number of pictures of Cuyp there, which satisfied my thirst 
for colouring, and appeared to me as I expected the Claudes would have 
done. Generally speaking, his objects are few in number and commonplace 
in their character—a bit of land and water, a few cattle and figures, in no 
way remarkable; but then he floods the whole with that dreamy, misty 
sunlight, such as fills the arches of our forests in the days of autumn. As 
I looked at them I fancied I could hear nuts dropping from the trees among 
the dry leaves, and see the goldenrods and purple asters, and hear the 
click of the squirrel as he whips up the tree to his nest. For this one 
attribute of golden, dreamy haziness, I like Cuyp. His power in shedding 
it over very simple objects reminds me of some of the short poems of Long¬ 
fellow, when tilings in themselves most prosaic are flooded with a kind of 
poetic light from the inner soul. These are merely first ideas and impres¬ 
sions. Of course I do not make up my mind about any artist from what 
I have seen here. We must not expect a painter to put his talent into 
every picture, more than a poet into every verse that he writes. Like 
other men, he is sometimes brilliant and inspired, and at others dull and 
heavy. In general, however, I have tills to say, that there is some kind 
of fascination about these old masters which I feel very sensibly. Rut yet 
I am sorry to add that there is very little of what I consider the highest 
mission of art in the specimens I have thus far seen; nothing which speaks 
to the deepest and the highest; which would inspire a generous ardour, or 
a solemn religious trust. Vainly I seek for something divine, and ask of 
art to bring me nearer t the source of all beauty and perfection. I find 
wealth of colouring, freedom of design, and capability of expression wasting 
themselves merely in portraying trivial sensualities and commonplace 
ideas. So much for the first essay. 

In the evening we went to dine with our old friends of the Dingle, 
Mr. and Mrs. Edward Cropper, who are now spending a little time in 
London. We were delighted to meet them once more, and to hear from 
our Liverpool friends. Mrs. Cropper’s father, Lord Denman, hasieturned 
to England, though with no sensible improvement in his health. 


136 SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 

At dinner we were introduced to Lord and Lady I’latherton. Lord 
Hatherton is a member of the whig party, and has been chief secretary for 
Ireland. Lady Hatherton is a person of great cultivation and intelligence, 
warmly interested in all the progressive movements of the day ; and I gained 
much information in her society. There were also present Sir Charles and 
Lady Trevilian ; the former holds some appointment in the navy. Lady 
Trevilian is a sister of Macaulay. 

In the evening quite a circle came in ; among others, Lady Emma 
Campbell, sister of the Duke of Argyle ; the daughters of the Archbishop 
of Canterbury, who very kindly invited me to visit them at Lambeth ; 
and Mr. Arthur Helps, besides many others whose names I need not 
mention. 

People here continually apologize for the weather, which, to say the 
least, has been rather ungracious since we have been here ; as if one ever 
expected to find anything but smoke, and darkness, and fog in London, 
The authentic air with which they lament the existence of these things at 
■‘present would almost persuade one that in general London was a very clear, 
bright place. I, however, assured them that, having heard from my child¬ 
hood of the smoke of London, its dimness and darkness, I found things 
much better than I had expected. 

They talk here of spirit rappings and table turnings, I find, as in 
America. Many rumours are afloat which seem to have no other effect 
than merely to enliven the chit-chat of an evening circle. I passed a very 
pleasant evening, and left about ten o’clock. The gentleman who was 
handing me down-stairs said, “I suppose you are going to one or two other 
places to-night.” The idea struck me as so preposterous that I could not 
help an exclamation of surprise. 

May 6.—A good many calls this morning. Among others came Miss 
Greenfield, the (so-called) Black Swan. She appears to be a gentle, 
amiable, and interesting young person. She was born the slave of a kind 
mistress, who gave her everything but education, and, dying, left her free 
with a little property. The property she lost by some legal quibble, but 
had, like others of her race, a passion for music, and could sing and play 
by ear. A young lady, discovering her taste, gave her a few lessons. She 
has a most astonishing voice. C. sat down to the piano and played while 
she sung. Her voice runs through a compass of three octaves and a fourth. 
This is four notes more than Malibran’s. She sings a most magnificent 
tenor, with such a breadth and volume of sound that, with your back 
turned, you could not imagine it to be a woman. While she was there, 
Mrs. S. C. Hall, of the Irish Sketches, was announced. She is a tall, well- 
proportioned woman, with a fine colour, dark-brown hair, and a cheerful, 
cordial manner. She brought with her her only daughter, a young girl 
about fifteen. I told her of Miss Greenfield, and she took great interest in 
her, and requested her to sing something for her. C. played the accompa¬ 
niment, and she sung “Old Folks at Home,” first in a soprano voice, and 
then in a tenor or baritone. Mrs. Hall was amazed and delighted, and 
entered at once into her cause. She said that she would call with me 
and present her to Sir George Smart, who is at the head of the queen’s 
musical establishment, and, of course, the acknowledged leader of London 
musical judgment. 

Mrs. Hall very kindly told me that she had called to invite me to seek a 


MARTIN FARQUHAR TUrPER. 137 

retreat with her in her charming little country house near London. I do 
not mean that she called it a charming little retreat, but that every one 
who speaks of it gives it that character. She told me that I should there 
have positive and perfect quiet ; and what could attract me more than that ? 
She said, moreover, that there they had a great many nightingales. Ah, 
this “bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream,” could I only go there ! but 
I am tied to London by a hundred engagements ; I cannot do it. Neverthe¬ 
less, I have promised that I will go and spend some time yet, when Mr. S. 
leaves London. 

In the course of the day I had a note from Mrs. Hall, saying that, as 
Sir George Smart was about leaving town, she had not waited for me, but 
had taken Miss Greenfield to him herself. She writes that he was really 
astonished and charmed at the wonderful weight, compass, and power of 
her voice. He was also as well pleased with the mind in her singing, and 
her quickness in doing and catching all that he told her. Should she have 
a public opportunity to perform, he offered to hear her rehearse beforehand. 
Sirs. Hall says this is a great deal for him, whose hours are all marked 
with gold. 

In the evening the house was opened in t general way for callers, who 
were coming and going all the evening. I think there must have been over 
two hundred people—among them Martin Farquhar Tupper, a little man, 
with fresh, rosy complexion, and cheery, joyous manners; and Mary 
Howitt, just such a cheerful, sensible, fireside companion as we find her in 
her books, winning love and trust the very first few moments of the inter¬ 
view. The general topic of remark on meeting me seems to be, that I am 
not so bad-looking as they were afraid I was ; and I do assure you that, 
when I have seen the things that are put up in the shop-windows here with 
my name under them, I have been in wondering admiration at the bound¬ 
less loving-kindness of my English and Scottish friends, in keejnng up such 
a warm heart for such a Gorgon. I should think that the Sphinx in the 
London Museum might have sat for most of them. I am going to make a 
collection of these portraits to bring home to you. There is a great variety 
of them, and they will be useful, like the Irishman’s guide-board, which 
showed where the road did not go. 

Before the evening was through I was talked out and worn out—there 
was hardly a chip of me left. To-morrow at eleven o’clock comes the meet¬ 
ing at Stafford House. What it will amount to I do not know ; but I take 
no thought for the morrow. 


LETTER XVI. 


RECEPTION AT STAFFORD HOUSE. 


Mat 8. 


My dear C. :— 

In fulfilment of my agreement, I will tell you, as nearly as I can re¬ 
member, all the details of the meeting at Stafford House. 

At about eleven o’clock we drove under the arched carriage way of a 
mansion, externally, not very showy in appearance. It stands on the 
borders of St. James's Park, opposite to Buckingham Palace, with a street 
on the north side, and beautiful gardens on the south, while the park is 
extended on the west. 



138 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

We were received at tlie door by two stately Highlanders in full costume; 
and what seemed to me an innumerable multitude of servants in livery, 
with powdered hair, repeated our names through the long corridors, from 
one to another. 

I have only a confused idea of passing from passage to passage, and from 
hall to hall, till finally we w r ere introduced into a large drawing room. No 
person was present, and I was at full leisure to survey an apartment whose ar¬ 
rangements more perfectly suited my eye and taste than any I had ever 
seen before. There was not any particular splendour of furniture, or 
dazzling display of upholstery, but an artistic, poetic air, resulting from 
the arrangement of colours and the disposition of the works of virtu with 
which the room abounded. The great fault in many splendid rooms, is, 
that they are arranged without any eye to unity of impression. The things 
in them may be all fine in their way, but there is no harmony of result. 

People do not often consider that there may be a general sentiment to be 
expressed in the arrangement of a room, as well as in the composition of a 
picture. It is this leading idea which corresponds to what painters call the 
ground tone, or harmonizing tint of a picture. The presence of this often 
renders a very simple room extremely fascinating, and the absence of it 
makes the most splendid combinations of furniture powerless to please. 

The walls were covered with green damask, laid on flat, and confined in 
its place by narrow gilt bands, which bordered it around the margin. The 
chairs, ottomans, and sofas were of white woodwork, varnished and gilded, 
covered with the same. 

The carpet was of a green ground, bedropped ■with a small yellow leaf; 
and in each window, a circular standing basket contained a whole bank of 
primroses, growing as if in their native soil, their pale yellow blossoms and 
green leaves harmonising admirably with the general tone of colouring. 

Through the fall of the lace curtains I could see out into the beautiful 
grounds, whose clumps of blossoming white lilacs, and velvet grass seemed 
so in harmony with the green interior of the room, that one would think they 
had been arranged as a continuation of the idea. 

One of the first individual objects which attracted my attention was, 
over the mantel-piece, a large, splendid picture by Landseer, which I have 
often seen engraved. It represents the two eldest children of the Duchess 
of Sutherland, the Marquis of Stafford, and Lady Blantyre, at that time 
Lady Levison Gower, in their childhood. She is represented as feeding a 
fawn; a little poodle dog is holding up a rose to her; and her brother is 
lying on the ground, playing with an old staghound. 

I had been familiar with Landseer’s engravings, but this was the first of 
his paintings I had ever seen, and I was struck with the rich and harmoni¬ 
ous quality of the colouring. There was also a full-length marble statue 
of the Marquis of Stafford, taken, I should think, at about seventeen years 
of age, in full Highland costume. 

When the duchess appeared, I thought she looked handsomer by daylight 
than in the evening. She was dressed in white muslin, with a drab velvet 
basque slashed with satin of the same colour. Her hair was confined by a 
gold and diamond net on the back part of her head. 

She received us with the same warm and simple kindness which she had 
shown before. We were presented to the Duke of Sutherland. He is a 
tall, slender man, with rather a thin face, light brown hair, and a mild 




STAFFOED HOUSE 139 

blue eye, with an air of gentleness and dignity. The delicacy of his health 
prevents him from moving in general society, or entering into public life. 
He spends much of his time in reading, and devising and executing schemes 
of practical benevolence for the welfare of his numerous dependants. 

I sought a little private conversation with the duchess in her boudoir, in 
which I frankly confessed a little anxiety respecting the arrangements of 
the day: having lived all my life in such a shady and sequestered way, 
and being entirely ignorant of life as it exists in the sphere in which she 
moves, such apprehensions were rather natural. 

She begged that I would make myself entirely easy, and consider myself 
as among my own friends; that she had invited a few friends to lunch, 
and that afterwards others would call; that there would be a short address 
from the ladies of England read by Lord Shaftesbury, which would require 
no answer. 

I could not but be grateful for the consideration thus evinced. The 
matter being thus adjusted, we came back to the drawing room, when the 
party began to assemble. 

The only difference, I may say, by the by, in the gathering of such a 
company and one With us, is in the announcing of names at the door; a 
custom which I think a good one, saving a vast deal of breath we always 
expend in company, by asking “Who is that? and that?” Then, too, 
people can fall into conversation without a formal presentation, the presump¬ 
tion being that nobody is invited with whom it is not proper that you 
should converse. The functionary who performed the announcing was a 
fine, stalwart man, in full Highland costume, the duke being the head of a 
Highland clan. 

Among the first that entered were the members of the family, the Duke 
and Duchess of Argyle, Lord and Lady Blantyre, the Marquis and Mar¬ 
chioness of Stafford, and Lady Emma Campbell. Then followed Lord 
Shaftesbury with his beautiful lady, and her father and mother, Lord and 
Lady Palmerston. Lord Palmerston is of middle height, with a keen, dai'k 
eye, and black hair streaked with grey. There is something peculiarly 
alert and vivacious about all his movements; in short his appearance per¬ 
fectly answers to what we know of him from his public life. One has 
a strange mythological feeling about the existence of people of whom one 
hears for many years without ever seeing them. While talking with Lord 
Palmerston I could but remember how often I had heard father and Mr. S. 
exulting over his foreign despatches by our home fireside. 

The Marquis of Lansdowne now entered. He is about the middle height, 
with grey hair, blue eyes, and a mild, quiet dignity of manner. He is 
one of those who, as Lord Henry Petty, took a distinguished part with 
Clarkson and Wilberforce in the abolition of the slave trade. He has always 
been a most munificent patron of literature and art. 

There were present, also, Lord John Russell, Mr. Gladstone, and Lord 
Grenville. The latter we all thought very strikingly resembled in his ap¬ 
pearance the poet Longfellow. My making the remark introduced the 
subject of his poetry. The Duchess of Argyle appealed to her two little 
boys, who stood each side of her, if they remembered her reading Evange¬ 
line to them. It is a gratification to me that I find by every English 
fireside traces of one of our American poets. These two little boys of the 
Duchess of Argyle, and the youngest son of the Duchess of Sutherland, 


140 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

were* beautiful fair-haired children, picturesquely attired in the Highland 
costume. There were some other charming children of the family circle 
present. The eldest son of the Duke of Argyle bears the title of the Lord 
of Lorn, which Scott has rendered so poetical a sound to our ears. 

When lunch was announced, the Duke of Sutherland gave me his arm, 
and led me through a suite of rooms into the dining hall. Each room that 
we passed was rich in its pictures, statues, and artistic arrangements; a 
poetic eye and taste had evidently presided over all. The table was beauti¬ 
fully laid, ornamented by two magnificent epergnes , crystal vases supported 
by wrought silver standards, filled with the most brilliant hothouse flowers; 
on the edges of the vases and nestling among the flowers were silver doves 
cf the size of life. The walls of the room were hung with gorgeous pictures, 
and directly opposite to me was a portrait of the Duchess of Sutherland, by 
Sir Thomas Lawrence, which has figured largely in our souvenirs and books 
of beauty. She is represented with a little child in her arms ; this child,,, 
now Lady Blantyre, was sitting opposite to me at table, with a charming 
little girl of her own, of about the same apparent age. When one sees such 
things, one almost fancies this to be a fairy palace, where the cold demons 
of age and time have lost their power. 

I was seated next to Lord Lansdowne, who conversed much with me 
about affairs in America. It seems to me that the great men of the old 
world regard our country thoughtfully. It is a new development of society, 
acting every day with greater and greater power on the old world; nor is 
it yet clearly seen what its final results will be. His observations indi¬ 
cated a calm, clear, thoughtful mind—an accurate observer of life and history. 

Meanwhile the servants moved noiselessly to and fro, taking up the 
various articles on the table, and offering them to the guests in a peculiarly 
quiet manner. One of the dishes brought to me was a plover’s nest, pre¬ 
cisely as the plover made it, with five little blue-speckled eggs in it. This 
mode of serving plover’s eggs, as I understand it, is one of the fashions of 
the day, and has something quite sylvan and picturesque about it; but it 
looked so, for all the world, like a robin’s nest that I used to watch out in 
our home orchard, that I had it not in my heart to profane the sanctity of 
the image by eating one of the eggs. 

The cuisine of these West End regions appears to be entirely under 
French legislation, conducted by Parisian artists, skilled in all subtle and 
metaphysical combinations of ethereal possibilities, quite inscrutable to the 
eye of sense. Her grace’s chef, I have heard it said elsewhere, bears the 
reputation of being the first artist of his class in England. The profession 
as thus sublimated bears the same proportion to the old substantial English 
cookery that Mozart’s music does to Handel’s, or Midsummer Night’s Dream 
to Paradise Lost. 

This meal, called lunch , is with the English quite an institution, being 
apparently a less elaborate and ceremonious dinner. Everything is placed 
upon the table at once, and ladies sit down without removing their bonnets; 
it is, I imagine, the most social and family meal of the day; one in which 
children are admitted to the table, even in the presence of company. It 
generally takes place in the middle of the day, and the dinner, which comes 
after it, at eight or nine in the evening, is in comparison only a ceremonial 
proceeding. 

I could not help thinking, as I looked around on so many men whom I 














STAFFORD HOUSE, 


141 

had heard of historically all my life, how very much less they bear the 
marks of age than men who have been connected a similar length of time 
with the movements of our country. This appeai*ance of youthfulness and 
alertness has a constantly deceptive influence upon one in England. I cannot 
realize that people are as old as history states them to be. In the present 
company there were men of sixty or seventy, whom I should have pro¬ 
nounced at the first glance to be fifty. 

Generally speaking, our working minds seem to wear out their bodies 
faster; perhaps because our climate is more stimulating ; more, perhaps, 
from the intenser stimulus of our political regime, which never leaves any 
thing long at rest. 

The tone of manners in this distinguished circle did not obtrude itself 
upon my mind as different from that of highly-educated people in our own 
country. It appeared simple, friendly, natural, and sincere. They talked 
like people who thought of wliat they were saying, rather than how to say 
it. The practice of thorough culture and good breeding is substan¬ 
tially the same through the world, though smaller conventionalities may 
differ. 

After lunch the whole party ascended to the picture gallery, passing on 
our way the grand staircase and hall, said to be the most magnificent in 
Europe. All that wealth could command of artistic knowledge and skill 
has been expended here to produce a superb result. It fills the entire 
centre of the building, extending up to the roof and surmounted by a 
splendid dome. On tln'ee sides a gallery runs round it supported by pillars. 
To this gallery you ascend on the fourth side by a staircase, which midway 
has a broad, flat landing, from which stairs ascend, on the right and left, 
into the gallery. The whole hall and staircase, carpeted with a scarlet 
footcloth, give a broad, rich mass of colouring, throwing out finely the 
statuary and gilded balustrades. On the landing is a marble statue of a 
Sibyl, by Rinaldi. The walls are adorned by gorgeous frescos from Paul 
Veronese. What is peculiar in the arrangements of this hall is, that 
although so extensive, it still wears an air of warm homelikeness and com¬ 
fort, as if it might be a delightful place to lounge and enjoy life, amid the 
ottomans, sofas, pictures, and statuary, which are disposed here and there 
throughout. 

All this, however, I passed rapidly by as I ascended the staircase, and 
passed onward to the picture gallery. This was a room about a hundred 
feet long by forty wide, surmounted by a dome gorgeously finished with 
golden palm-trees and carving. This hall is lighted in the evening by a 
row of gas-lights placed outside the ground glass of the dome; this light is 
concentrated and thrown down by strong reflectors, communicating thus 
the most brilliant radiance without the usual heat of gas. This gallery is 
peculiarly rich in paintings of the Spanish school. Among them are two 
superb Murillos, taken from convents by Marshal Soult, during the time of 
his career in Spain. 

There was a painting by Paul de la Roche of the Earl of Strafford led 
forth to execution, engravings of which we have seen in the print-shops 
in Amei'ica. It is a strong and striking picture, and has great dramatic 
effect. But there was a painting in one corner by a Flemish artist, rvliose 
name I do not now remember, representing Christ under examination 
before Caiaphas. It was a candle-light scene, and only two faces were 


142 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


very distinct; the downcast, calm, resolute face of Christ, in which was 
written a perfect knowledge of his approaching doom, and the eager, per¬ 
turbed vehemence of the high priest, who was interrogating him. On the 
frame was engraved the lines,— 

He was wounded for our transgressions. 

He was bruised for our iniquities: 

The chastisement of our peace was upon him, 

And with his stripes we are healed.” 

The presence of this picture here in the midst of this scene was very 
affecting to me. 

The company now began to assemble and throng the gallery, and very 
soon the vast room was crowded. Among the throng I remember many 
presentations, but of course must have forgotten many more. Archbishop 
Whately was there, with Mrs. and Miss Whately; Macaulay, with two of 
his sisters; Milman, the poet and historian; the Bishop of Oxford, Che¬ 
valier Bunsen and lady, and many more. 

When all the company were together Lord Shaftesbury read a very short, 
kind, and considerate address in behalf of the ladies of England, expressive 
of their cordial welcome. The address will be seen in the Morning Adver¬ 
tiser, which I send you. The company remained a while after this, 
walking through the rooms and conversing in different groups, and I talked 
with several. Archbishop Whately, I thought, seemed rather inclined to 
be jocose: he seems to me like some of our American divines; a man who 
pays little attention to forms, and does not value them. There is a kind 
of brusque humour in his address, a downright heartiness, which reminds 
one of western character. If he had been born in our latitude, in Ken¬ 
tucky or Wisconsin, the natives would have called him Whately, and said 
he was a real steamboat on an argument. This is not precisely the kind 
of man we look for in an archbishop. One sees traces of this humour in 
his Historic Doubts concerning the Existence of Napoleon. I conversed 
with some who knew him intimately, and they said that he delighted in 
puns and odd turns of language. 

I was also introduced to the Bishop of Oxford, who is a son of Wil- 
berforce. He is a short man, of very youthful appearance, with bland, 
graceful, courteous manners. He is much admired as a speaker. I heard 
him spoken of as one of the most popular preachers of the day. 

I must not forget to say that many ladies of the Society of Friends were 
here, and one came and put on to my arm a reticule, in which, she said, were 
carried about the very first antislavery tracts ever distributed in England. 
At that time the subject of antislavery was as unpopular in England as 
it can be at this day anywhere in the world, and I trust that a day will 
come when the subject will be as popular in South Carolina as it is now 
in England. People always glory in the right after they have done it. 

After a while the, company dispersed over the house to look at the 
rooms. There are all sorts of parlours and reception rooms, furnished 
with the same correct taste. Each room has its predominant colour; 
among them blue was a particular favourite. 

The carpets were all of those small figures I have described, the blue 
ones being of the same pattern with the green. The idea, I suppose, is to 
produce a mass of colour of a certain tone, and not to distract the eye 
v ith the complicated pattern. Where so many objects of art and virtu 











STAFFORD HOUSE. 


143 

are to be exhibited, ■without this care in regulating and simplifying the 
ground tints, there would be no unity in the impression. This was my 
philosophising on the matter, and if it is not the reason why it is done, it 
ought to be. It is as good a theory as most theories, at any rate. 

Before we went away, I made a little call on the Lady Constance 
Grosvenor, and saw the future Marquis of Westminster, heir to the largest 
estate in England. His beautiful mother is celebrated in the annals of 
the court journal as one of the handsomest ladies in England. His little 
lordship was presented to me in all the dignity of long, embroidered 
clothes, being then, I believe, not quite a foi'tnight old, and I can assure 
you that he demeaned himself with a gravity becoming his rank and 
expectations. 

There is a more than common interest attached to these children by 
one who watches the present state of the world. On the character and 
education of the princes and nobility of this generation the future history 
of England must greatly depend. 

This Stafford House meeting, in any view of it, is a most remarkable 
fact. Kind and gratifying as its arrangements have been to me, I am far 
from appropriating it to myself individually as a personal honour. I rather 
regard it as the most public expression possible of the feelings of the women 
of England, on one of the most important questions of our day—that of 
individual liberty considered in its religious bearings. 

The most splendid of England’s palaces has this day opened its doors to 
the slave. Its treasures of wealth and of art, its prestige of high name 
and historic memories, have been consecrated to the acknowledgment of 
Christianity in that form wherein, in our day, it is most frequently denied 
—the recognition of the brotherhood of the human family, and the equal 
religious value of every human soul. A fair and noble hand by this 
meeting has fixed, in the most public manner, an ineffaceable seal to the 
beautiful sentiments of that most Christian document, the letter of the 
ladies of Great Britain to the ladies of America. That letter and this 
public attestation of it are now historic facts, which wait their time and 
the judgment of advancing Christianity. 

Concerning that letter I have one or two things to say. Nothing can be 
more false than the insinuation that has been thrown out in some Ame¬ 
rican papers, that it was a political movement. It had its first origin in 
the deep religious feelings of the man whose wdiole life has been devoted to 
the abolition of the white-labour slavery of Great Britain; the man whose 
eye explored the darkness of the collieries, and counted the weary steps of 
the cotton-spinners—who penetrated the dens where the insane were tor¬ 
tured with darkness, and cold, and stripes; and threaded the loathsome 
alleys of London, haunts of fever and cholera: this man it was, whose 
heart was overwhelmed by the tale of American slavery, and who could 
find no relief from this distress except in raising some voice to the ear of 
Christianity. Fearful of the jealousy of political interference, Lord Shaftes¬ 
bury published an address to the ladies of England, in wdiich he told them 
that he felt himself moved by an irresistible impulse to entreat them to 
raise their voice, in the name of a common Christianity and womanhood, 
to their American sisters. The abuse which has fallen upon him for this 
most Christian proceeding does not in the least surprise him, because it is 
of the kind that has always met him in every benevolent movement 


144 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


When, in the Parliament of England, lie was pleading for women in the 
collieries who were harnessed like beasts of burden, and made to draw 
.teavy loads through miry and dark passages, and for children who were 
taken at three years old to labour where the sun never shines, he was met 
with determined and fiu’ious opposition and obloquy—accused of being a 
disorganizer, and of wishing to restore the dark ages. Very similar accu¬ 
sations have attended all his efforts for the labouring classes during the 
long course of seventeen years, which resulted at last in the triumphant 
passage of the factory bill. 

We in America ought to remember that the gentle remonstrance of the 
letter of the ladies of England contains, in the mildest form, the sentiments 
of universal Christendom. Rebukes much more pointed are coming back to 
us even from our own missionaries. A day is coming when, past all the 
temporary currents of worldly excitement, we shall, each of us, stand alone 
face to face with the perfect purity of our Redeemer. The thought of such 
a final interview ought certainly to modify all our judgments now, that we 
may strive to approve only what we shall then approve. 


LETTER XVII. 

THE SUTHERLAND ESTATE. 

Mr dear C. :— 

As to those ridiculous stories about the Duchess of Sutherland, which 
have found their way into many of the prints in America, one has only to 
be here, moving in society, to see how excessively absurd they are. 

All my way through Scotland, and through England, I was associating, 
from day to day, with people of every religious denomination, and every 
rank of life. I have been with dissenters and with churchmen ; with the 
national Presbyterian church and the free Presbyterian ; with Quakers and 
Baptists. 

In all these circles I have heard the great and noble of the land freely 
spoken of and canvassed, and if there had been the least shadow of a found¬ 
ation for any such accusations, I certainly should have heard it recognised 
in some manner. If in no other, such warm friends as I have heard speak 
would have alluded to the subject in the way of defence ; but I have 
actually never heard any allusion of any sort, as if there was anything to 
be explained or accounted for. 

As I have before intimated, the Howard family, to which, the duchess 
belongs, is one which has always been on the side of popular rights and 
popular reform. Lord Carlisle, her brother, has been a leader of the people, 
particularly during the time of the corn-law reformation, and she has been 
known to take a wide and generous interest in all these subjects. Every¬ 
where that I have moved through Scotland and England I have heard her 
kindness of heart, her affability of manner, and her attention to the feelings 
“'of others spoken of as marked characteristics. 

Imagine, then, what people must think when they find in respectable 
American prints the absurd story of her turning her tenants out into the 
snow, and ordering the cottages to be set on fire over their heads because 
they would not go out. 

But, if you ask how such an absurd story could ever have been made up, 














THE SUTHERLAND ESTATE. 


145 


whether there is the least foundation to make it on, I answer, that it is the 
exaggerated repoi-t of a movement made by the present Duke of Sutherland’s 
father, in the year 1811, and which was part of a great movement that 
passed through the Highlands of Scotland, when the advancing progress of 
civilization began to make it necessary to change the estates from military 
to agricultural establishments. 

Soon after the union of the crowns of England and Scotland, the border 
chiefs found it profitable to adopt upon their estates that system of agricul¬ 
ture to which their hills were adapted, rather than to continue the main¬ 
tenance of military retainers. Instead of keeping garrisons, with small 
armies, in a district, they decided to keep only so many as could profitably 
cultivate the land. The effect of this, of course, was like disbanding an 
army. It threw many people out of employ, and forced them to seek for a 
home elsewhere. Like many other movements which, in tlieir final results, 
are beneficial to society, this was at first vehemently resisted, and had to 
be carried into effect in some cases by force. As I have said, it began first 
in the southern counties of Scotland, soon after the union of the English 
and Scottish crowns, and gradually crept northward—one county after 
another yielding to the change. To a certain extent, as it progressed north¬ 
ward, the demand for labour in the great towns absorbed the surplus popu¬ 
lation ; but when it came into the extreme Highlands, this refuge was 
wanting. Emigration to America now became the resource ; and the sur¬ 
plus population were induced to this by means such as the Colopization 
Society now recommends and approves for promoting emigration to Liberia. 

The first farm that was so formed on the Sutherland estate was in 1806. 
The great change was made in 1811-12, and completed in 1819-20. 

The Sutherland estates are in the most northern portion of Scotland. 
The distance of this district from the more advanced parts of the kingdom, 
the total want of roads, the unfrequent communication by sea, and the 
want of towns, made it necessary to adopt a different course in regard to 
the location of the Sutherland population from that which circumstances 
had provided in other parts of Scotland, where they had been removed from 
the bleak and uncultivable mountains. They had lots given them near the 
sea, or in more fertile spots, where, by labour and industry, they might 
maintain themselves. They had two years allowed them for preparing for 
the change, without payment of rent. Timber for their houses was given, 
and many other facilities for assisting their change. 

The general agent for the Sutherland estate is Mr. Loch. In a speech of 
this gentleman in the House of Commons, on the second reading of the 
Scotch poor-law bill, June 12, 1845, he states the following fact with re¬ 
gard to the management of the Sutherland estate during this period, from 
1811 to 1833, which certainly can speak foritself: “ I can state as from fact 
that, from 1811 to 1833, not one sixpence of rent has been received from 
that county, but, on the contrary, there has been sent there, for the benefit 
and improvement of the people, a sum exceeding sixty thousand pounds.” 

Mr. Loch, goes on in the same speech to say, “There is no set of peopL 
more industrious than the people of Sutherland. Thirty years since they 
were engaged in illegal distillation to a very great extent; at the presen 
moment there is not, I believe, an illegal still in the county. Their moral 
have improved as those habits have been abandoned; and they have added 

L 



146 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


many hundreds, I believe thousands, of acres to the land in cultivation 
since they were placed upon the shore. 

‘ ‘ Previous to that change to which I have referred, they exported very 
few cattle, and hardly anything else. They were, also, every now and 
then, exposed to all the difficulties of extreme famine. In the years 
1812-13, and 1816-17, so great was the misery that it was necessary to 
send down oatmeal for their supply to the amount of nine thousand pounds, 
and that was given to the people. But, since industrious habits were in¬ 
troduced, and they were settled within reach of fishing, no such calamity 
has overtaken them. Their condition was then so low that they were 
obliged to bleed their cattle, during the winter, and mix the blood with the 
remnant of meal they had, in order to save them from starvation. 

“Since then the country has improved so much that the fish, in parti¬ 
cular, which they exported, in 1815, from one village alone, Helmsdale, 
(which, previous to 1811, did not exist,) amounted to five thousand three 
hundred and eighteen barrels of herring, and in 1844 thirty-seven thousand 
five hundred and ninety-four barrels, giving employment to about three 
thousand nine hundred people. This extends over the whole of the county, 
in which fifty-six thousand barrels were cured. 

“ Do not let me be supposed to say that there are not cases requiring 
attention : it must be so in a large population; but there can be no means 
taken by a landlord, or by those under him, that are not bestowed upon 
that tenantry. 

‘ ‘ It has been said that the contribution by the heritor (the duke) to one 
kirk session for the poor was but six pounds. Now, in the eight parishes 
which are called Sutherland proper, the amount of the contribution of the 
Duke of Sutherland to the kirk session is forty-two pounds a year. That 
is a very small sum, but that sum merely is so given because the landlord 
thinks that he can distribute his charity in a more beneficial manner to the 
people; and the amount of charity which he gives—and which, I may say, 
is settled on them, for it is given regularly—is above four hundred and fifty 
pounds a year. 

“Therefore the statements that have been made, so far from being cor¬ 
rect, are in every Avay an exaggeration of what is the fact. No portion of 
the kingdom has advanced in prosperity so much ; and if the honourable 
member (Mr. S. Ciawford) will go down there, I will give him every 
facility for seeing the state of the people, and he shall judge with his own 
eyes whether my representation be not correct. I could go through a great 
many other particulars, but I will not trouble the house now with them. 
The statements I have made are accurate, and I am quite ready to prove 
them in any way that is necessary.” 

This same Mr. Loch has published a pamphlet, in which he has traced 
out the effects of the system pursued on the Sutherland estate, in many very 
important particulars. It appears from this that previously to 1811 the 
people were generally sub-tenants to the middle men, who exacted high 
rents, and also various perquisites, such as the delivery of poultry and eggs, 
giving so many days’ labour in harvest time, cutting and carrying peat and 
stones for building. 

Since 1811 the people have become immediate tenants, at a greatly dimi¬ 
nished rate of rent, and released from all these exactions. For instance, 
in two parishes, in 1812, the rents were one thousand five hundred and 


THE SUTHERLAND ESTATE. 


147 

ninety-three pounds, and in 1823 they were only nine hundred and seventy- 
two pounds. In another parish the reduction of rents has amounted, on 
an average, to thirty-six per cent. Previous to 1811 the houses were turf 
huts of the poorest description, in many instances the cattle being kept 
under the same roof with the family. Since 1811 a large proportion of 
their houses have been rebuilt in a superior manner—the landlord having 
paid them for their old timber where it could not be moved, and having 
also contributed the new timber, with lime. 

Before 1811 all the rents of the estates were used for the persona 
profit of the landlord; but since that time, both by the present duke and 
his father, all the rents have been expended on improvements in the 
county, besides sixty thousand pounds more which have been remitted from 
England for the purpose. This money has been spent on churches, school 
houses, harbours, public inns, roads, and bridges. 

In 1811 there was not a carriage road in the county, and only two 
bridges. Since that time four hundred and thirty miles of road have been 
constructed on the estate, at the expense of the proprietor and tenants. 
There is not a turnpike gate in the county, and yet the roads are kept 
perfect. 

Before 1811 the mail was conveyed entirely by a foot runner, and there 
was but one post office in the county; and there was no direct post across 
the county, but letters to the north and west were forwarded once a month. 
A mail coach has since been established, to which the late Duke of Sutherland 
contributed more than two thousand six hundred pounds; and since 1334 
mail gigs have been established to convey letters to the north and west 
coast, towards which the Duke of Sutherland contributes three hundred 
pounds a year. There are thirteen post offices and sub-offices in the 
county. Before 1811 there was no inn in the county fit for the reception 
of strangers. Since that time there have been fourteen inns either built or 
enlai'ged by the Huke. 

Befoi'e 1811 there was scarcely a cart on the estate; all the carriage 
was done on the backs of ponies. The cultivation of the interior was 
generally executed with a rude kind of spade, and there was not a gig 
in the county. In 1845 there were one thousand one hundred and 
thirty carts owned on the estate, and seven hundred and eight ploughs, 
also forty-one gigs. 

Before 1812 there was no bakei', and only two shops. In 1845 thei'e 
were eight bakei'S and forty-six grocers’ shops, in nearly all of which shoe 
blacking was sold to some extent, an unmistakable evidence of advancing 
civilization. 

In 1808 the cultivation of the coast side of Sutherland was so defective 
that it was necessary often, in a fall of snow, to cut down the young Scotch 
firs to feed the cattle on ; and in 1808 hay had to be imported. Now the 
coast side of Sutherland exhibits an extensive district of land cultivated 
accoi'ding to the best principles of modern agriculture ; several thousand 
acres have been added to the arable land by these impi-ovements. 

Befoi'e 1811 there were no woodlands of any extent on the estate, and 
timber had to be obtained from a distance. Since that time many thousand 
acres of woodland have been planted, the thinnings of which, being sold t 
the people at a moderate rate, have greatly increased their comfort and im* 
proved their domestic arrangements. 


148 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

Before 1811 there were only two blacksmiths in the county. In 1845 
there were forty-two blacksmiths and sixty-tliree carpenters. Before 1829 
the exports of the county consisted of black cattle of an inferior descrip¬ 
tion, pickled salmon, and some ponies ; but these were precarious sources 
of profit, as many died in winter for want of food ; for example, in the 
spring of 1807 two hundred cows, five hundred cattle, and more than two 
hundred ponies died in the parish of Kildonan alone. Since that time 
the measures pursued by the Duke of Sutherland, in introducing im¬ 
proved breeds of cattle, pigs, and modes of agriculture, have produced 
results in exports which tell their own story. About forty thousand sheep 
and one hundred and eighty thousand fleeces of wool are exported annually; 
also fifty thousand barrels of herring. 

The whole fishing village of Helmsdale has been built since that time. 
It now contains from thirteen to fifteen curing yards covered with slate, 
and several streets with houses similarly built. The herring fishery, 
which has been mentioned as so productive, has been established since 
the change, and affords employment to three thousand nine hundred 
people. 

Since 1811, also, a savings bank has been established in every parish, of 
which the Duke of Sutherland is patron and treasurer, and the savings 
have been very considerable. 

The education of the children of the people has been a subject of deep 
interest to the Duke of Sutherland. Besides the parochial schools, (which 
answer, I suppose, to our district schools,) of which the greater number 
have been rebuilt or repaired at an expense exceeding what is legally re¬ 
quired for such purposes, the Duke of Sutherland contributes to the sup¬ 
port of several schools for young females, at which sewing and other 
branches of education are taught ; and in 1844 he agi'eed to establish 
twelve general assembly schools in such parts of the county as were with¬ 
out the sphere of the parochial schools, and to build school and school¬ 
masters’ houses, which will, upon an average, cost two hundred pounds 
each ; and to contribute annually two hundred pounds in aid of salaries 
to the teachers, besides a garden and cows’ grass; and in 1845 he 
made an arrangement with the education committee of the Free church, 
whereby no child, of whatever persuasion, will be beyond the reach of 
moral and religious education. 

There are five medical gentlemen on the estate, three of whom receive 
allowances from the Duke of Sutherland for attendance on the poor in the 
districts in which they reside. 

An agricultural association, or farmers’ club, lias been formed under the 
patronage of the Duke of Sutherland, of which the other proprietors in 
the county, and the larger tenantry, are members, which is in a very active 
and flourishing state. They have recently invited Professor Johnston to 
visit Sutherland, and give lectures on agricultural chemistry. 

The total population of the Sutherland estate is twenty-one thousand 
seven hundred and eighty-four. To have the charge and care of so large 
an estate, of course, must require very systematic arrangements ; but a 
talent for system seems to be rather the forte of the English. 

The estate is first divided into three districts, and each district is under 
the superintendence of a factor, who communicates with the duke through 
a general agent. Besides this, when the duke is on the estate, which is 


TITE SUTHERLAND ESTATE. 


149 

during a portion of every year, lie receives on Monday whoever of his 
tenants wishes to see him. Their complaints or wishes are presented in 
writing ; he takes them into consideration, and gives written replies. 

Besides the three factors there is a ground officer, or sub-factor, in every 
parish, and an agriculturist in the D unrobin district, who gives particular 
attention to instructing the people in the best methods of farming. The 
factors, the ground officers, and the agriculturists all work to one common 
end. They teach the advantages of draining ; of ploughing deep, and 
forming their ridges in straight lines ; of constructing tanks for saving 
liquid manure. The young fanners also pick up a great deal of know¬ 
ledge when working as ploughmen or labourers on the more immediate 
grounds of the estate. 

The head agent, Mr. Loch, has been kind enough to put into my hands 
a general report of the condition of the estate, which he drew up for the 
inspection of the duke, May 12, 1853, and in which he goes minutely over 
the condition of every part of the estate. 

One anecdote of the former Duke of Sutherland will show the spirit 
which has influenced the family in their management of the estate. In 
1817, when there was much suffering on account of bad seasons, the Duke 
of Sutherland sent down his chief agent to look into the condition of the 
people, who desired the ministers of the parishes to send in their lists of 
the poor. To his surprise it was found that there were located on the 
estate a number of people who had settled there without leave. They 
amounted to four hundred and eight families, or two thousand persons ; 
and though they had no legal title to remain where they were, no hesita¬ 
tion was shown in supplying them with food in the same manner with those 
who were tenants, on the sole condition that on the first opportunity they 
should take cottages on the sea shore, and become industrious people. It 
■was the constant object of the duke to keep the rents of his poorer tenants 
at a nominal amount. 

What led me more particularly to inquire into these facts was, that 
I received by mail, while in London, an account containing some of these 
stories, -which had been industriously circulated in America. There 
were dreadful accounts of cruelties practised in the process of inducing the 
tenants to change their places of residence. The following is a specimen of 
these stories:— 

‘ ‘ I was present at the pulling down and burning of the house of William 
Chisholm, Badinloskin, in which was lying his wife’s mother, an old, bed¬ 
ridden woman of near one hundred years of age, none of the family being 
present. I informed the persons about to set fire to the house of this cir¬ 
cumstance, and prevailed on them to wait till Mr. Sellar came. On his 
arrival I told him of the poor old woman being in a condition unfit for 
removal. He replied, ‘ Damn her, the old witch, she has lived too long; 
let her burn.’ Fire was immediately set to the house, and the blankets in 
which she was carried were in flames before she could be got out. She was 
placed in a little shed, and it was with great difficulty they were prevented 
from firing that also. The old woman’s daughter arrived while the house 
was on fire, and assisted the neighbours in removing her mother out of the 
flames and smoke, presenting a picture of horror which I shall never for¬ 
get, but cannot attempt to describe. She died within five days.” 

With regard to this story Mr. Loch, the agent, says, “ I must notice the 


15G SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

only thing like a fact stated in tlie newspaper extract which you sent to 
me, wherein Mr. Sellar is accused of acts of cruelty towards some of the 
people. This Mr. Sellar tested, by bringing an action against the then 
sheriff substitute of the county. He obtained a verdict for heavy damages. 
The sheriff, by whom the slander was propagated, left the county. Both 
are since dead.” 

Having, through Lord Shaftesbury’s kindness, received the benefit of Mr. 
Loch’s corrections to this statement, I am permitted to make a little further 
extract from his reply. He says,— 

“ In addition to what I was able to say in my former paper, I can now 
state that the Duke of Sutherland has received, from one of the most 
determined opposers of the measure, who travelled to the north of Scotland 
as editor of a newspaper, a letter regretting all he had written on the 
subject, being convinced that he was entirely misinformed. As you take so 
much interest in the subject, I will conclude by saying that nothing could 
exceed the prosperity of the county during the past year; their stock, sheep, 
and other things sold at high prices ; their crops of grain and turnips were 
never so good, and the potatoes were free from all disease; rents have been 
paid better than was ever known. * * * As an instance of the improved 
habits of the farmers, no house is now built for them that they do not 
require a hot bath and water closets.” 

From this long epitome you can gather the following results; first, if the 
system were a bad one, the Duchess of Sutherland had nothing to do with 
it, since it was first introduced in 1806, the same year her grace was born; 
and the accusation against Mr. Sellar dates in 1811, when her grace was 
five or six years old. The Sutherland arrangements were completed in 
1819, and her grace was not married to the duke till 1823, so that, had 
the arrangement been the worst in the world, it is nothing to the purpose 
so far as she is concerned. 

As to whether the arrangement is a bad one, the facts which hare been 
stated speak for themselves. To my view it is an almost sublime instance 
of the benevolent employment of superior wealth and power in shortening 
the struggles of advancing civilization, and elevating in a few years a whole 
community to a point of education and material prosperity, which, un¬ 
assisted, they might never have obtained. 


LETTER XVIII. 

BAPTIST NOEL.—30B0T7GH SCHOOL.—EOGERS, THE POET.—STAFFORD HOITSE.— 
ELLESMEKE COLLECTION OF PAINTINGS.—LORD JOHN RVSSELL. 

London, Sunday, May 8. 

Mv dear. S. :— 

Mr. S. is very unwell, in bed, worn out with the threefold labour 
of making and receiving calls, visiting, and delivering public addresses. C. 
went to hear Dr. McNeile, of Liverpool, preach—one of the leading men of 
the established church evangelical party, a strong millenarian. C. said 
that he was as fine a looking person in canonicals as he ever saw in the pulpit. 
In doctrine he is what we in America should call very strong old school. I 
went, as I had always predetermined to do, if ever I came to London, to 
hear Baptist Noel, drawn thither by the melody and memory of those 




BAPTIST NOEL, 


151 


beautiful hymns of his,* which must meet a response in every Christian 
heart. He is tall and well formed, with one of the most classical and har¬ 
monious heads I ever saw. Singularly enough, he reminded me of a bust 
of Achilles at the London Museum. He is indeed a swift-footed Achilles, 
but in another race, another warfare. Born of a noble family, naturally 
endowed with sensitiveness and ideality to appreciate all the amenities and 
suavities of that brilliant sphere, the sacrifice must have been inconceivably 
great for him to renounce favour and preferment, position in society,— 
—which, here in England, means more than Americans can ever dream of 
—to descend from being a court chaplain, to become a preacher in a Baptis 
dissenting chapel. "Whatever may be thought of the correctness of the 
intellectual conclusions which led him to such a step, no one can fail 
to revere the strength aud purity of principle which could prompt to such 
sacrifices. Many, perhaps, might have preferred that he should have 
chosen a less decided course. But if his judgment really led to these 
results, I see no way in which it was possible for him to have avoided it. 
It was with an emotion of reverence that I contrasted the bareness, plain¬ 
ness, and poverty of that little chapel with that evident air of elegance and 
cultivation which appeared in all that he said and did. The sermon was 
on the text, “Now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three.” 
Naturally enough, the subject divided itself into faith, hope, and charity. 

His style calm, flowing, and perfectly harmonious, his delivery serene and 
graceful, the whole flowed over one like a calm and clear strain of music. 
It was a sermon after the style of Tholuck and other German sermonizers, 
who seem to hold that the purpose of preaching is not to rouse the soul by 
an antagonistic struggle with sin through the reason, but to soothe the 
passions, quiet the will, and bring the mind into a frame in which it shall 
incline to follow its owm convictions of duty. They take for granted, that 
the reason why men sin is not because they are ignorant, but because they 
are distracted and tempted by passion; that they do not need so much to 
be told what is their duty, as persuaded to do it. To me, brought up on 
the very battle-field of conti’oversial theology, accustomed to hear every 
religious idea guarded by definitions, and thoroughly hammered on a 
logical anvil before the preacher thought of making any use of it for heart 
or conscience, though I enjoyed the discourse extremely, I could not help 
wondering what an American theological professor would make of such a 
sermon. 

To preach on faith, hope, and charity, all in one discourse—why, we 
should have six sermons on the nature of faith to begin with : on specula¬ 
tive faith; saving faith ; practical faith, and the faith of miracles; then we 
should have the laws of faith, and the connexion of faith with evidence, and 
the nature of evidence, and the different kinds of evidence, and so on. For 
my part I have had a suspicion since I have been here, that a touch of this 
kind of thing might improve English preaching; as, also, I do think that 
sermons of the kind I have described would be useful, by w ay of alterative, 
among us. If I could have but one of the two manners. 1 should prefer 
our own, because I think that this habit of preaching is one of the strongest 
educational forces that forms the mind of our country. 

* The hymns beginning with these lines, “ If human kindness meet return,’' and 
««Behold where, in a mortal form,” are specimens. 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


152 

After the service was over I went into the vestry, and was introduced to 
Mr. Noel. The congregation of the established church, to which he minis¬ 
tered during his connexion with it, are still warmly attached to him. His 
leaving them was a dreadful trial; some of them can scarcely mention his 
name without tears. C. says, with regard to the church singing, as far as 
he heard it, it is twenty years behind that in Boston. In the afternoon I 
stayed at home to nurse Mr. S. A note from Lady John Russell, inviting 
us there. 

Monday, May 9. I should tell you that at the Duchess of Sutherland’s 
an artist, named Burnard, presented me with a very fine cameo head of 
W'ilberforce, cut from a statue in Westminster Abbey. He is from Corn¬ 
wall, in the south of England, and has attained some celebrity as an artist. 
He wanted to take a bust of me; and though it always makes me laugh to 
think of having a new likeness, considering the melancholy results of all 
former enterprises, yet still I find myself easy to be entreated, in hopes, as 
Mr. Micawber says, that something may “ turn up,” though I fear the dif¬ 
ficulty is radical in the subject. So I made an appointment with Mr. Bur¬ 
nard, and my very kind friend, Mr. B., in addition to all the other confu¬ 
sions I have occasioned in his mansion, consented to have his study turned 
into a studio. Upon the heels of this comes another sculptor, who has a bust 
begun, which he says is going to be finished in Parian, and published, 
whether I sit for it or not, though, of course, he would much prefer to get 
a look at me now and then. Well, Mr. B. says he may come, too ; so there 
you may imagine me in the study, perched upon a very high stool, dividing 
my glances between the two sculptors, one of whom is taking one side of 
my face, and one the other. 

To-day I went with Mr. and Mrs. B. to hear the examination of a 
borough-school for boys. Mrs. B. told me it was not precisely a charity 
school, but one where the means of education were furnished at so cheap a 
rate that the pooi’est classes could enjoy them. Arrived at the hall, we 
found quite a number of distingues, bishops, lords, and clergy, besides num¬ 
bers of others assembled to hear. The room was hung round with the 
drawings of the boys, and specimens of handwriting. I was quite asto¬ 
nished at some of them. They were executed by pen, pencil, or crayon—■ 
drawings of machinery, landscapes, heads, groups, and flowers, all in a style 
which any parent among us would be proud to exhibit, if done by our own 
children. The boys looked very bright and intelligent, and I was delighted 
with the system of instruction which had evidently been pursued with 
them. We heard them first in the reading and recitation of poetry; after 
that in arithmetic and algebra, then in natural philosophy, and last, and 
most satisfactorily, in the Bible. It was perfectly evident, from the nature 
of the questions and answers, that it was not a crammed examination, and 
that the readiness of reply proceeded not from a mere commitment of words, 
but from a system of intellectual training, which led to a good understand¬ 
ing of the subject. In arithmetic and algebra the answers were so re¬ 
markable as to induce the belief in some that the boys must have been 
privately prepared on their questions; but the teacher desired Lord John 
Russell to write down any number of questions which he wished to have 
given to the boys to solve, from his own mind. Lord John wrote down two 
or three problems, and I was amused at the zeal and avidity with which 
the boys seized upon and mastered them. Young England was evidently 


LORD JOHN RUSSELL. 


153 

wide awake, and the prime minister himself was not to catch them napping. 
The little fellows’ eyes glistened as they rattled off their solutions. As I 
know nothing about mathematics, I was all the more impressed: but when 
they came to be examined in the Bible, I was more astonished than ever. 
The masters had said that they would be willing any of the gentlemen 
should question them, and Mr. B. commenced a course of questions on the 
doctrines of Christianity ; asking, Is there any text by which you can prove 
this, or that ? and immediately, with great accuracy, the boys would cite 
text upon text, quoting not only the more obvious ones, but sometimes 
applying Scripture with an ingenuity and force which I had not thought of, 
and always quoting chapter and verse of every text'.' I do not know who is 
at the head of this teaching, nor how far it is a sample of English schools ; 
but I know that these boys had been wonderfully well taught, and I felt my 
old professional enthusiasm arising. 

After the examination Lord John came forward, and gave the boys a good 
fatherly talk. He told them that they had the happiness to live under a 
free government, where all offices are alike open to industry and merit, and 
where any boy might hope by application and talent to rise to any station 
below that of the sovereign. He made some sensible, practical comments 
on their Scripture lessons, and, in short, gave precisely such a kind of 
address as one of our New England judges or governors might to school¬ 
boys in similar circumstances. Lord John hesitates a little in his delivery, 
but has a plain, common-sense way of “ speaking right on,” which seems 
to be taking. He is a very simple man in his manners, apparently not at 
all self-conscious, and entered into the feelings of the boys and their 
masters with good-natured sympathy, which was very winning. I should 
think he was one of the kind of men who are always perfectly easy and 
self-possessed let what will come, and who never could be placed in a situa¬ 
tion in which he did not feel himself quite at home, and perfectly compe¬ 
tent to do whatever was to be done. 

To-day the Duchess of Sutherland called with the Duchess of Argyle. 
Miss Greenfield happened to be present, and I begged leave to present her, 
giving a slight sketch of her history. I was pleased with the kind and 
easy affability with which the Duchess of Sutherland conversed with her, 
betraying by no inflection of voice, and nothing in air or manner, the great 
lady talking with the poor girl. She asked all her questions with as much 
delicacy, and made her request to hear her sing with as much consideration 
and politeness, as if she had been addressing any one in her own circle. She 
seemed much pleased with her singing, and remarked that she should be 
happy to give her an opportunity of performing in Stafford House, so soon 
as she should be a little relieved of a heavy cold which seemed to oppress 
her at present. This, of course, will be decisive in her favour in London. 
The duchess is to let us know when the arrangement is completed. 

I never realized so much that there really is no natural prej udice against 
colour in the human mind. Miss Greenfield is a dark mulattress, of a 
pleasing and gentle face, though by no means handsome. She is short and 
thick set, with a chest of great amplitude, as one would think on hearing 
her tenor. I have never seen in any of the persons to whom I have pre¬ 
sented her the least indications of suppressed surprise or disgust, any more 
than we should exhibit on the reception of a dark-complexioned Spaniard 



154 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

or Portuguese. Miss Greenfield bears her success with much quietness and 
good sense. 

Tuesday, May 10. C. and I were to go to-day, with Mrs. Cropper and 
Lady Hatherton, to call on the poet Rogers. I was told that he was in 
very delicate health, but that he still received friends at his house. We 
found the house a perfect collection of the most rare and costly works of 
art—choicest marbles, vases, pictures, gems, and statuary met the e} r e every - 
whei’e. We spent the time in examining some of these while the servant 
went to announce us. The mild and venerable old man himself was the 
choicest picture of all. He has a splendid head, a benign face, and 
reminded me of an engraving I once saw of Titian. Pie seemed very glad 
to see us, spoke to me of the gathering at Stafford House, and asked me 
what I thought of the place. When I expressed my admiration, he said, 
“Ah, I have often said it is a fairy palace, and that the duchess is the 
good fairy.” Again, he said, “I have seen all the palaces of Europe, but 
there is none that I prefer to this.” Quite a large circle of friends now 
came in and were presented. He did not rise to receive them, but sat back 
in his easy chair, and conversed quietly with us all, sparkling out now and 
then in a little ripple of playfulness. In this room were his best beloved 
pictures, and it is his pleasure to show them to his friends. 

By a contrivance quite new to me, the pictures are made to revolve on a 
pivot, so that by touching a spring they move out from the wall, and can 
be seen in different lights. There was a picture over the mantel-piece of a 
Roman Triumphal Procession, painted by Rubens, which attracted my 
attention by its rich colouring and spirited representation of animals. 

The colouring of Rubens always satisfies my eye better than that of any 
other master, only a sort of want of grace in the conception disturbs me. In 
this case both conception and colouring are replete with beauty. Rogers 
seems to be carefully waited on by an attendant who lias learned to inter¬ 
pret every motion and anticipate every desire. 

I took leave of him with a touch of sadness. Of all the brilliant circle 
of poets, which has so delighted us, he is the last—and he so feeble ! His 
memories, I am told, extend back to a personal knowledge of Dr. Johnson. 
How I should like to sit by him, and search into that cabinet of recollec¬ 
tions ! He presented me his poems, beautifully illustrated by Turner, with 
his own autograph on the fly leaf. He writes still a clear, firm, beautiful 
hand, like a lady’s. 

After that, we all v r ent over to Stafford House, and the Duke and 
Duchess of Sutherland went with us into Lord Ellesmere’s collection 
adjoining. Lord Ellesmere sails for America to-day, to be present at the 
opening of the Crystal Palace. He left us a very polite message. The 
Duchess of Argyle, with her two little boys, was there also. Lord Carlisle 
very soon came in, and with him—who do you think ? Tell Hattie and 
Eliza if they could have seen the noble stagliound that came bounding in 
with him, they would have turned from all the pictures on the wall to this 
living work of art. 

Landseer thinks he does well when he paints a dog; another man chisels 
one in stone : what would they think of themselves if they could string the 
nerves and muscles, and wake up the affections and instincts, of the real, 
living creature ? That were to be an artist indeed! The dog walked about 
the gallery, much at home, putting his nose up first to one and then 


BRIDGEWATER GALLERY. 


155 

another of the distinguished persons by whom he was surrounded; and 
once in a while stopping, in an easy race about the hall, would plant 
himself before a picture, with his head on one *Me, and an air of high-bred 
approval, much as I have seen young gentlemen do under similar circum- 
stances. All he wanted was an eyeglass, and he would have been perfectly 
set up as a critic. 

As for the pictures, I have purposely delayed coming to them. Imagine 
a botanist dropped into the middle of a blooming prairie, waving with 
unnumbered dyes and forms of flowers, and only an hour to examine and 
make acquaintance with them ! Hoorn after room we passed, filled with 
Titians, Murillos, Guidos, &c. There were four Raphaels, the first I had 
ever seen. Must I confess the truth ? Raphael had been my dream for 
years. I expected something which would overcome and bewilder me. I 
expected a divine baptism, a celestial mesmerism ; and I found four very 
beautiful pictures—pictures which left me quite in possession of my senses, 
and at liberty to ask myself, am I pleased, and how much ? It was not 
that I did not admire, for I did; but then I did not admire enough. The 
pictures are all holy families, cabinet size: the figures, Mary, Joseph, the 
infant Jesus, and John, in various attitudes. A little perverse imp in my 
heart suggested the questions, “ If a modern artist had painted these, what 
would be thought of them ? If I did not know it was Raphael, what should 
I think?” And I confess that, in that case, I should think that there was 
in one or two of them a cei'tain hardness and sharpness of outline that was 
not pleasing to me. Neither any more than Murillo, has he in these pic¬ 
tures shadowed forth, to my eye, the idea of Mary. Protestant as I am, 
no Catholic picture contents me. I thought to myself that I had seen 
among living women, and in a face not far off, a nobler and sweeter idea of 
womanhood. 

It is too much to ask of any earthly artist, however, to gratify the aspi¬ 
rations and cravings of those who have dreamed of them for years unsatis¬ 
fied. Perhaps no earthly canvas and brush can accomplish this marvel. I 
think the idealist must lay aside his highest ideal, and be satisfied he shall 
never meet it, and then he will begin to enjoy. With this mood and un¬ 
derstanding I did enjoy very much an Assumption of the Virgin, by Guido, 
and more especially Diana and her Nymphs, by Titian: in this were that 
softness of outline, and that blending of light and shadow into each other, 
of which I felt the want'in the Raphaels. I felt as if there was a perfection 
of cultivated art in this, a classical elegance, which, so far as it went, left 
the eye or mind nothing to desire. It seemed to me that Titian was a 
Greek painter, the painter of an etherealized sensuousness, which leaves 
the spiritual nature wholly unmoved, and therefore all that lie attempts he 
attains. Raphael, on the contrary, has spiritualism; his works enter a 
sphere where it is more difficult to satisfy the soul; nay, perhaps, from the 
nature of the case, impossible. 

There were some glorious pieces of sunshine, by Cuyp. There was a 
massive sea piece by Turner, in which the strong solemn swell of the green 
waves, and the misty wreathings of clouds, were powerfully given. 

There was a highly dramatic piece, by Paul de la Roche, representing 
Charles I. in a guard-room, insulted by the soldiery. He sits pale, calm, 
and resolute, while they are puffing tobacco-smoke in his face, and passing 


15G 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


vulgar jokes. His thoughts appear to he far away, his eyes looking beyond 
them with an air of patient, proud weariness. 

Independently of the pleasure one receives from particular pictures in 
these galleries, there is a general exaltation, apart from critical considera¬ 
tions, an excitement of the nerves, a kind of dreamy state, which is a gain 
in our experience. Often in a landscape we first single out particular ob¬ 
jects—this old oak, that cascade, that ruin—and derive from them an 
individual joy; then relapsing, we view the landscape as a whole, and seem 
to be surrounded by a kind of atmosphere of thought, the result of the 
combined influence of all. This state, too, I think, is not without its in¬ 
fluence in educating the aesthetic sense. 

Even in pictures which we comparatively reject, because we see them in 
the presence of superior ones, there is a wealth of beauty, which would 
grow on us from day to day, could we see them often. When I give a sigh 
to the thought, that in our country we are of necessity, to a great extent, 
shut from the world of art, I then rejoice in the inspiriting thought that 
Nature is ever the superior. No tree painting can compare with a splendid 
elm in the plenitude of its majesty. There are colourings beyond those of 
Rubens poured forth around us in every autumn scene; there are Murillos 
smiling by our household firesides ; and as for Madonnas and Venuses, I 
think with Byron,— 

“ I’ve seen more splendid women, ripe and real, 

Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal.” 

Still, I long for the full advent of our American day of art, already dawn¬ 
ing auspiciously. 

After finishing our inspection, we went back to Stafford House to lunch. 

In the evening we went to Lord John Russell’s. We found Lady Russell 
and her daughters sitting quietly around the evening lamp, quite by them¬ 
selves. She is elegant and interesting in her personal appearance, and has 
the same charm of simplicity and sincerity of manner which we have found 
in so many of the upper sphere. She is the daughter of the Earl of Minto, 
and the second wife of Lord John. We passed here an entirely quiet and 
domestic evening, with only the family circle. The conversation turned on 
various topics of practical benevolence, connected with the care and educa¬ 
tion of the poorer classes. Allusion being made to Mrs. Tyler’s letter, 
Lady Russell expressed some concern lest the sincere and well-intended ex¬ 
pression of the feeling of the English ladies might have done harm. I said 
that I did not think the spirit of Mrs. Tyler’s letter was to be taken as 
representing the feeling of American ladies generally—only of that class 
who are determined to maintain the rightfulness of slavery. 

It seems to me that the better and more thinking part of the higher 
classes in England have conscientiously accepted the responsibility which 
the world has charged upon them of elevating and educating the poorer 
classes. In every circle since I have been here in England, I have heard 
the subject discussed as one of paramount importance. 

One or two young gentlemen dropped in in the course of the evening, and 
the discourse branched out on the various topics of the day; such as the 
weather, literature, art, spiritual-rappings, and table-turnings, and all the 
floating et ceteras of life. Lady Russell apologised for the absence of Lord 
John in Parliament, and invited us to dine with them at their residence 
in Richmond Park next week, when there is to be a parliamentary recess. 


MACAULAY. 


157 

We left about ten o’clock, and went to pass the night with our friends 
Mr. and Mrs. Cropper, at their hotel, being engaged to breakfast at the 
West End in the morning. 


LETTER XIX. 

BREAKFAST,—MACAULAY.—UALLAH.—MILMAN.—SIR R. INGLIS.—LUNCH AT SURREY 
PARSONAGE.—DINNER AT SIR E. BUXTON’S. 

May 19. 

Dear E.:— 

This letter I consecrate to you, because I know that the persons and 
things to be introduced into it will most particularly be appreciated by you. 

In your evening reading circles, Macaulay, Sidney Smith, and Milman 
have long been such familiar names that you will be glad to go with me 
over all the scenes of my morning breakfast at Sir Charles Trevelyan’s 
yesterday. Lady Trevelyan, I believe I have said before, is the sister of 
Macaulay, and a daughter of Zachary Macaulay—that undaunted labourer 
for the slave, whose place in the hearts of all English Christians is little 
below saintship. 

We were set down at Welbourne Terrace, somewhere, I believe, about 
eleven o’clock, and found quite a number already in the drawing room. I 
had met Macaulay before, but as you have not, you will of course ask a lady’s 
first question, How does he look?” 

Well, my dear, so far as relates to the mere outward husk of the soul, 
our engravers and daguerreotypists have done their work as well as they 
usually do. The engraving that you get in the best editions of his works 
may be considered, I suppose, a fair representation of how he looks when 
he sits to have his picture taken, which is generally very different from 
the way anybody looks at any other time. People seem to forget, in 
taking likenesses, that the features of the face are nothing but an alphabet, 
and that a dry, dead map of a person’s face gives no more idea of how 
one looks than the simple presentation of an alphabet shows what there is 
in a poem. 

Macaulay’s whole physique gives you the impression of great strength 
and stamina of constitution. He has the kind of frame which we usually 
imagine as peculiarly English; short, stout, and firmly knit. There is 
something hearty in all his demonstrations. He speaks in that full, round, 
rolling voice, deep from the chest, which we also conceive of as being 
more common in England than America. As to his conversation, it is 
uist like his writing; that is to say, it shows very strongly the same 
qualities of mind. 

I was informed that he is famous for a most uncommon memory; one of 
those men to whom it seems impossible to forget anything once read; and 
he has read all sorts of things that can be thought of, in all languages. A 
gentleman told me that he could repeat all the old Newgate literature, 
hanging ballads, last speeches, and dying confessions; while his knowledge 
of Milton is so accurate, that, if his poems were blotted out of existence, 
they might be restored simply from his memory. This same accurate 
knowledge extends to the Latin and Greek classics, and to much of the 
literature of modern Europe. Had nature been required to make a man to 
order, for a perfect historian, nothing better could have been put together, 



158 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


especially since there is enough of the poetic fire included in the composition, 
to fuse all these multiplied materials together, and colour the historical 
crystallization with them. 

Macaulay is about fifty. He has never married; yet there are unmis- 
takeable evidences in the breathings and aspects of the family circle by 
whom he was surrounded, that the social part is not wanting in his con¬ 
formation. Some very charming young lady relatives seemed to think 
quite as much of their gifted uncle as you might have done had he been 
yours. 

Macaulay is celebrated as a conversationalist; and, like Coleridge, Car¬ 
lyle, and almost every one v/ho enjoys this reputation, he has sometimes 
been accused of not allowing people their fair share in conversation. This 
might prove an objection, possibly, to those who wish to talk; but as I 
greatly prefer to hear, it would prove none to me. I must say, however, 
that on this occasion the matter was quite equitably managed. There 
were, I should think, some twenty or thirty at the breakfast table, and the 
conversation formed itself into little eddies of two or three around the table, 
now and then welling out into a great bay of general discourse. I was 
seated between Macaulay and Milman, and must confess I was a little 
embarrassed at times, because I wanted to hear what they were both saying 
at the same time. However, by the use of the faculty by which you play a 
piano with both hands, I got on very comfortably. 

Milman’s appearance is quite striking; tall, stooping, with a keen black 
eye and perfectly white hair—a singular and poetic contrast. He began 
upon architecture and Westminster Abbey—a subject to which I am always 
awake. I told him I had not yet seen Westminster; for I was now busy in 
seeing life and the present, and by and by I meant to go there and see death 
and the past. 

Milman was for many years dean of Westminster, and kindly offered me 
his services, to indoctrinate me into its antiquities. 

Macaulay made some suggestive remarks on cathedrals generally. I said 
that I thought it singular that we so seldom knew who were the architects 
that designed these great buildings; that they appeared to me the most 
sublime efforts of human genius. 

He said that all the cathedrals in Europe were undoubtedly the result of 
one or two minds; that they rose into existence very nearly contempora¬ 
neously, and were built by travelling companies of masons, under the 
direction of some systematic organization. Perhaps you knew all this 
before, but I did not; and so it struck me as a glorious idea. x\nd if it is 
not the true account of the origin of cathedrals, it certainly ought to be; 
and, as our old grandmother used to say, “I’m going to believe it.” 

Looking around the table, and seeing how everybody seemed to be enjoy¬ 
ing themselves, I said to Macaulay, that these breakfast parties were a 
novelty to me; that we never had them in America, but that I thought 
them the most delightful form of social life. 

He seized upon the idea, as he often does, and turned it playfully inside 
out, and shook it on all sides, just as one might play with the lustres of a 
chandelier—to see them glitter. He expatiated on the merits of breakfast 
parties as compared with all other parties. He said dinner parties are 
mere formalities. You invite a man to dinner because you must invite 
him •, because you are acquainted with his grandfather, or it is proper you 




MACAULAY. 


159 

should; but you invite a man to breakfast because you want to see him. 
You may be sure, if you are invited to breakfast, that there is something 
agreeable about you. This idea struck me as very sensible; and we all, 
generally having the fact before our eyes that we were invited to breakfast, 
approved the sentiment. 

“ Yes,” said Macaulay, “ depend upon it; if a man is a bore he never 
gets an invitation to breakfast.” 

“ Rather hard on the poor bores,” said a lady. 

“Particularly,” said Macaulay, laughing, “as bores are usually the 
most irreproachable of human beings. Did you ever hear a bore complained 
of when they did not say that he was the best fellow in the world ? For 
my part, if I wanted to get a guardian for a family of defenceless orphans, 
I should inquire for the greatest bore in the vicinity. I should know that 
he would be a man of unblemished honour and integrity.” 

The conversation now went on to Milton and Shakspeare. Macaulay 
made one remark that gentlemen are always making, and that is, that there 
is very little characteristic difference between Shakspeare’s women. Well, 
there is no hope for that matter ; so long as men are not women they will 
think so. In general they lump together Miranda, J uliet, Desdemona, and 
Viola, 

“ As matter too soft a lasting mark to bear 
And best distinguished as black, brown, or fair.” 

It took Mrs. Jameson to set this matter forth in her Characteristics of 
Women ; a book for which Shakspeare, if he could get up, ought to make 
her his best bow r , especially as there are fine things a c " v ibed to him there, 
which, I dare say, he never thought of, careless fellow umt he was ! But, 
I take it, every true painter, poet, and artist is iff some sense so far a 
prophet that his utterances convey more to other minds than he himself 
knows ; so that, doubtless, should all the old masters rise from the dead, 
they might be edified by what posterity has found in their works. 

Some bow or other, we found ourselves next talking about Sidney Smith ; 
and it was very pleasant to me, recalling the evenings when your father 
has read and we have laughed over him, to hear him spoken of as a living 
existence, by one who had known him. Still, I have always had a quarrel 
with Sidney, for the wicked use to which he put his wit,^jn abusing good 
old Dr. Carey, and the missionaries in India ; nay, in some places he even 
stooped to be spiteful and vulgar. I could not help, therefore, saying, 
when Macaulay observed that he had the most agreeable wit of any literary 
man of his acquaintance, “Well, it was very agreeable, but it could not 
have been very agreeable to the people who came under the edge of it,” and 
instanced his treatment of Dr. Carey. Some others who were present 
seemed to feel warmly on this subject, too, and Macaulay said,— 

“ Ah, well, Sidney repented of that, afterwards,” He seemed to cling to 
his memory, and to turn from every fault to his joviality, as a thing he 
could not enough delight to remember. 

Truly, wit, like charity, covers a multitude of sins. A man who has the 
faculty of raising a laugh in this sad, earnest world is remembered with 
indulgence and complacency, always. 

There were sevei’al other persons of note present at this breakfast, whose 
conversation I had not an opportunity of hearing, as they sat at a distance 
from me. There was Lord Glenelg, brother of Sir Robert Grant, governor 


160 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

of Bombay, whose beautiful hymns have rendered him familiar in America. 
The favourite one, commencing, “When gathering clouds around I view,” 
was from his pen. Lord Glenelg, formerly Sir Charles Grant, himself lias 
been the author of several pieces of poetry, which were in their time quite 
popular. 

The historian Hallam was also present, whose Constitutional History, 
you will remember, gave rise to one of Macaulay’s finest reviews; a quiet, 
retiring man, with a benignant, somewhat sad, expression of countenance. 
The loss of an only son has cast a shadow over his life. It was on this son 
that Tennyson wrote his “ In Memoriam .” 

Sir Itobert H. Inglis was also present, and Mr. S. held considerable con¬ 
versation with him. Knowing that he was both high tory and high church, 
it was an agreeable surprise to find him particularly gentle aud bland in 
manners, earnest and devout in religious sentiment. I have heard him 
spoken of, even among dissenters, as a devout and earnest man. Another 
proof this of what mistakes we fall into when we judge the characters of 
persons at a distance, from what we suppose likely to be the effect of their 
sentiments. We often find the professed aristocrat gentle and condescend¬ 
ing, and the professed supporter of forms spiritual. 

I think it very likely there may have been other celebrities present, 
whom I did not know. I am always finding out, a day or two after, that 
I have been with somebody very remarkable, and did not know it at the 
time. 

After breakfast we found, on consulting our list, that we were to lunch 
at Surrey parsonage. 

Of all th§ cities I was ever in, London is the most absolutely unmanage¬ 
able, it takes so long to get anywhere; wherever you want to go it seems to 
take you about two hours to get there. From the West End down into the 
city is a distance that seems all but interminable. London is now more 
than ten miles long. And yet this monster city is stretching in all direc¬ 
tions yearly, and where will be the end of it nobody knows. Southey says, 
“I began to study the map of London, though dismayed at its prodigious 
extent. The river is no assistance to a stranger in finding his way; there 
is no street along its banks, and no eminence from whence you can look 
around and take your bearings.” 

You may take these reflections as passing through my mind while we 
were driving through street after street, and going round corner after 
corner, towards the parsonage. 

Surrey Chapel and parsonage were the church and residence of the cele¬ 
brated Howland Hill. At present the incumbent is the Rev. Mr. Sherman, 
well known to many of our American clergy by the kind hospitalities and 
attentions with which he has enriched their stay in London. The church 
maintains a medium rank between Congregationalism and Episcopacy, 
retaining part of the ritual, but being independent hr its government. 
The kindness of Mr. Sherman had assembled here a very agreeable company, 
among whom were Farquliar Tupper, the artist Cruikshank, from whom 
I received a call the other morning, and Mr. Pellatt, M.F. Cruikshank is 
an old man with gray hair and eyebrows, strongly marked features, and 
keen eyes. He talked to me something about the promotion of temperance 
by a series of literary sketches illustrated by his pencil. 

I sat by a lady who was well acquainted with Kingsley, the author of 



HEY. CnARLES KINGSLEY. 1G1 

Alton Locke, Hypatia, and other works, with whom I had some conversa¬ 
tion with regard to the influence of his writings. 

She said that he had been instrumental in rescuing from infidelity many 
young men whose minds had become unsettled; that he was a devoted and 
laborious clergyman, exerting himself, without any cessation, for the good 
of his parish. 

After the company were gone I tried to get some rest, as my labours were 
not yet over, we being engaged to dine at Sir Edward Buxton’s. This was 
our most dissipated day in London. We never tried the experiment again 
of going to three parties in one day. 

By the time I got to my third appointment I was entirely exhausted. I 
met here some, however, whom I was exceedingly interested to see; among 
them Samuel Gurney, brother of Elizabeth Fry, with his wife and family. 
Lady Edward Buxton is one of his daughters. All had that air of benevo¬ 
lent friendliness which is characteristic of the sect. 

Dr. Lushington, the companion and venerable associate of Wilberforce 
and Clarkson, was also present. He was a member of Parliament with 
Wilberforce forty or fifty years ago. He is now a judge of the admiralty 
court, that is to say, of the law relating to marine affairs. This is a branch 
of law which the nature of our government in America makes it impossible 
fur us to have. He is exceedingly brilliant and animated in conversation. 

Dr. Cunningham, the author of World without Souls, was present. 
There was also a master of Harrow School. He told me an anecdote, 
which pleased me for several reasons; that once, when the queen visited 
the school, she put to him the inquiry, “whether the educational system 
of England did not give a disproportionate attention to the study of the 
ancient classics ?” His reply was, “that her majesty could best satisfy her 
mind on that point by observing what men the public schools of England 
had hitherto produced;” certainly a very adroit reply, yet one which would 
be equally good against the suggestion of any improvement whatever. We 
might as well say, see what men we have been able to raise in America 
withe utany classical education at all; witness Benjamin Franklin, George 
Washington, and Roger Sherman. 

It is a curious fact that Christian nations, with one general consent, in 
the early education of youth neglect the volume which they consider inspired, 
and bring the mind, at the/most susceptible period, under the dominion of 
the literature and mythology of the heathen world; and that, toe, when the 
sacred history and poetry are confessedly superior in literary quality. Grave 
doctors of divinity expend their forces in commenting on and teaching things 
which would be utterly scouted, were an author to publish them in English 
as original compositions. A Christian community has its young men edu¬ 
cated in Ovid and Anacreon, but is shocked when one of them comes out in 
English with Don Juan; yet, probably, the latter poem is purer than either. 

The English literature and poetry of the time of Pope and Dryden betray 
a state of association so completely heathenized, that an old Greek or Homan 
raised from the dead could scarce learn from them that any change had 
taken place in the religion of the world, and even Milton often pains one 
by introducing second-hand pagan mythology into the very shadow of the 
eternal throne. In some parts of the Paradise Lost, the evident imitations 
of Homer ai*e to me the poorest and most painful passages. 

The adoration of the ancient classics has lain like a dead weight on all 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


162 

modern art and literature; because men, instead of using them simply for 
excitement and inspiration, have congealed them into fixed, imperative 
rules. As the classics have been used, I think, wonderful as have been 
the minds educated under them, there would have been more variety and 
oz'iginality without them. 

With which long sermon on a short text, I will conclude my letter. 


LETTER XX. 

DINNER AT LORD SHAFTESBURY'S. 

Thursday, May 12. 

My dear I.:— 

Yesterday, what with my breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I was, as the 
fashionable saying is, “fairly knocked up.” This expression, which I 
find obtains universally here, corresponds to what we mean by being ‘ ‘ used 
up.” They talk of Americanisms, and I have a little innocent speculation 
now and then concerning Anglicisms. I certainly find several here for 
which I can perceive no more precedent in the well of “English undefilcd,” 
than for some of ours; for instance, this being “knocked up,” which is 
variously inflected, as, for example, in the form of a participial adjective, 
as a “knocking up” affair; in the form of a noun, as when they say “such 
a person has got quite a knocking up,” and so on. 

The fact is, if we had ever had any experience in London life we should 
not have made three engagements in one day. To my simple eye it is 
quite amusing to see how they manage the social machine here. People 
are under such a pressure of engagements, that they go about with their 
lists in their pockets. If A wants to invite B to dinner, out come their 
respective lists. A says he has only Tuesday and Thursday open for this 
week. ' B looks down his list, and says that the days are all closed. A 
looks along, and says that he has no day open till next Wednesday week. 
B, however, is going to leave town Tuesday; so that settles the matter as 
to dining; so they turn back again, and try the breakfasting ; for though 
you cannot dine in but one place a day, yet, by means of the breakfast and 
the lunch, you can make three social visits if you are strong enough. 

Then there are evening parties, which begin at ten o’clock. The first 
card of the kind that was sent me, which was worded, ‘ ‘ At home at ten 
o’clock,” I, in my simplicity, took to be ten in the morning. 

But here are people staying out night after night till two o’clock, sitting 
up all night in Parliament, and seeming to thrive upon it. There certainly 
is great apology for this in London, if it is always as dark, drizzling, and 
smoky in the daytime as it has been since I have been here. If I were 
one of the London people, I would live by gaslight as they do, for the 
streets and houses are altogether pleasanter by gaslight than by daylight. 
But to ape these customs under our clear, American skies, so contrary to 
our whole social system, is simply ridiculous. 

This morning I was exceedingly tired, and had a perfect longing to get 
out of London into some green fields—to get somewhere where there was 
nobody. So kind Mrs. B. had the carriage, and off we drove together. By 
and by we found ourselves out in the country, and then X wanted to get out 
and walk. 



LORD SHAFTESBURY. 


163 

After a while a lady came along, riding a little donkey. These donkeys 
have amused me so Mitch since I have been here! At several places on the 
outskirts of the city they have them standing, all girt up with saddles 
covered with white cloth, for ladies to ride on. One gets out of London by 
means of an omnibus to one of these places, and then, for a few pence, can 
have a ride upon one of them into the country. Mrs. B. walked by the 
side of the lady, and said to her something which I did not hear, and she 
immediately alighted and asked me with great kindness if I wanted to try 
the saddle; so I got upon the little beast, which was about as large as a 
good-sized calf, and rode a few paces to try him. It is a slow bub not un¬ 
pleasant gait, and if the creature were not so insignificantly small, as to 
make you feel much as if you were riding upon a cat, it would be quite a 
pleasant affair. After dismounting I crept through a hole in a hedge, and 
looked for some flowers; and, in short, made the most that I could of my 
interview with nature, till it came time to go home to dinner, for our dinner 
hour at Mr. B.’s is between one and two; quite like home. In the evening 
we were to dine at Lord Shaftesbury’s. 

After napping ail the afternoon we went to Grosvenor Square. There 
was only a small, select party, of about sixteen. Among the guests were 
Dr. McAll, Hebrew professor in King’s College, Lord Wriothesley Bussell, 
brother of Lord John, and one of the private chaplains of the queen, and 
the Archbishop of Canterbury. Dr. McAll is a xnillenarian. He sat next 
to C. at table, and they had some conversation on that subject. He said 
those ideas had made a good deal of progress in. the English mind. 

While I w r as walking down to dinner with Lord Shaftesbury, he pointed 
out to me in the hail the portrait of his distinguished ancestor, Antony 
Ashley Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury, whose name he bears. This ancestor, 
notwithstanding his sceptical philosophy, did some good things, as he was 
the author of the habeas corpus act. 

After dinner we went back to tbs drawing rooms again; and while tea 
and coffee were being served, names were constantly being announced, till 

the rooms were quite full. Among the earliest who arrived was Mr.-, 

a mulatto gentleman, formerly British consul at Liberia. I found him a 
man of considerable cultivation, and intelligence, evincing much good sense 
iu his observations. 

I overheard some one saying in the crowd, “ Shaftesbury lias been about 
the chimney sweepers again in Parliament/’ I said to Lord Shaftesbury, 
“ I thought that matter of the chimney sweepers had been attended to 
long ago, and laws made about it.” 

“ So we have made laws,” said he, “ but people wont keep them unless 
we follow them up.” 

He has a very prompt, cheerful way of speaking, and throws himsel 
into everything he talks about with great interest and zeal. He introduced 
me to one gentleman—I forget his name now—as the patron of the shoe¬ 
blacks. On my inquiring what that meant, he said that he had started the 
idea of providing employment for poor street boys, by furnishing them 
with brushes and blacking, and forming them into regular companies of 
shoeblacks. Each boy has his particular stand, where he blacks the shoes 
of every passer by who chooses to take the trouble of putting up his toot 
and paying his twopence. Lord Shaitesbury also presented me to a lady 
who had been a very successful teacher in the ragged schools; also to a 

M 2 



1G4 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

gentleman who, he said, had been very active in the London city missions. 
Some very ingenious work done in the ragged schools was set on the table 
for the company to examine, and excited much interest. 

I talked a little while with Lord Wriothesley Russell. From him we 
derived the idea that the queen was particularly careful in the training 
and religious instruction of her children. He said that she claimed thiit 
the young prince should be left entirely to his parents, in regard to his 
religious instruction, till he was seven years of age; but that, on examining 
him at that time, they were equally surprised and delighted with his 
knowledge of the Scriptures. I must remark here, that such an example 
as the queen sets in the education of her children makes itself felt through 
all the families of the kingdom. Domesticity is now the fashion in high 
life. I have had occasion to see, in many instances, how carefully ladies 
of rank instruct their children. This argues more favourably for the con¬ 
tinuance of English institutions than anything I have seen. If the next 
generation of .those who are born to rank and power are educated, in the 
words of Fenelon, to consider these things “as a ministry,” which they 
hold for the benefit of the poor, the problem of life in England will become 
easier of solution. Such are Lord Shaftesbury’s views; and as he throws 
them out with unceasing fervour in his conversation and conduct, they 
cannot but powerfully affect not only his own circle, but all circles through 
the kingdom. Lady Shaftesbury is a beautiful and interesting woman, 
and warmly enters into the benevolent plans of her husband. A gentle¬ 
man and lady with whom I travelled said that Lord and Lady Shaftesbury 
had visited in person the most forlorn and wretched parts of London, that 
they might get, by their own eyesight, a more correct gauge of the misery 
to be relieved. I did not see Lord Shaftesbury’s children; but, from the 
crayon likenesses which hung upon the walls, they must be a family of 
uncommon beauty. 

I talked a little while with the Bishop of Tuam. I was the more 
interested to do so because he was from that part of Ireland which Sibyl 
Jones has spoken of as being in so particularly miserable a condition. I 
said, “ How are you doing now, in that part of the country? There has 
been a great deal of misery there, I hear.” He said, “ There has been, but 
we have just turned the corner, and now I hope we shall see better days. 
The condition of the people has been improved by emigration and other 
causes, till the evils have been brought within reach, ana we feel that there 
is a hope of effecting a permanent improvement.” 

While I was sitting talking, Lord Shaftesbury brought a gentleman and 
lady, whom he introduced as Lord Chief Justice Campbell and Lady 
Stratheden. Lord Campbell is a man of most dignified and imposing 
personal presence; tall, with a large frame, a fine, high forehead, and 
strongly marked features. Naturally enough, I did not suppose them to 
be husband and wife, and when I discovered that they were so, expressed a 
good deal of surprise at their difference of titles; to which she replied, that 
she did not wonder we Americans were sometimes puzzled among the 
number of titles. She seemed quite interested to inquire into our manner 
of living and customs, and how they struck me as compared with theirs. 
The letter of Mrs. Tyler was much talked of, and some asked me if I 
supposed Mrs. Tyler really wrote it, expressing a little civil surprise at the 
style. I told them that I had heard it said thy 1 ' it must have been written 


ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY. 165 

by some of the gentlemen in tlie family, because it was generally understood 
that Mrs. Tyler was a very ladylike person. Some said, “It does us no 
harm to be reminded of our deficiencies; we need all the responsibility that 
can be put upon us.” Others said, “ It is certain we have many defects 
but Lord Campbell said, “There is this difference between our evils and 
those of slavery : ours exist contrary to law; those are upheld by law.” 

I did not get any opportunity of conversing with the Archbishop of Can¬ 
terbury, though this is the second time I have been in company with him. 
He is a most prepossessing man in his appearance—simple, courteous, mild, 
and affable. He was formerly Bishop of Chester, and is now Pi-imate of all 
England. 

_ It is some indication of the tendency of things in a country to notice what 
kind of men are patronized, and promoted to the high places of the church. 
Sumner is a man refined, gentle, affable, scholarly, thoroughly evangelical 
in sentiment; to render him into American phraseology, he is in doctrine 
what we should call a moderate New School man. He has been a most 
industrious writer; one of his principal works is his Commentary on the 
New Testament, in several volumes; a work most admirably adapted for 
popular use, combining practical devotion with critical accuracy to an 
uncommon degrae. He has also published a work on the Evidences of 
Christianity, in which he sets forth some evidences of the genuineness of 
the gospel narrative, which could only have been conceived by a mind of 
peculiar delicacy, and which are quite interesting and original. He has 
also written a work on Biblical Geology, which is highly spoken of by Sir 
Charles Lyell and others. If I may believe accounts that I hear, this mild 
and moderate man has shown a most admirable firmness and facility in 
guiding the ship of the establishment in some critical and perilous places of 
late years. I should add that he is warmly interested in all the efforts now 
making for the good of the poor. 

Among other persons of distinction, this evening, I noticed Loi'd and 
Lady Palmerston. 

A lady asked me this evening what I thought of the beauty of the ladies 
of the English aristocracy: she was a Scotch lady, by the by; so the ques¬ 
tion was a fair one. I replied, that certainly report had not exaggerated 
their charms. Then caune a home question—how the ladies of England 
compared with the ladies of America? “Now for it, patriotism,” said I 
to myself; and, invoking to my aid certain fair saints of my own country, 
whose faces I distinctly remembered, I assured her I had never seen more 
beautiful women than I had in Amei'ica. Grieved was I to be obliged to 
add, “But your ladies keep their beauty much later and longei*.” This 
fact stares one in the face in every company; one meets ladies past fifty, 
glowing, radiant, and blooming, with a freshness of complexion and fulness 
of outline l'efreshing to contemp’ate. What can be the reason ? Tell us, 
Muses and Graces, what can it be ? Is it the consei’vative power of sea 
fogs and coal smoke—the same cause that keeps the turf green, and makes 
the holly and ivy floui'ish ? How comes it that our married ladies dwindle, 
fade, and grow thin, that their noses incline to sharpness, and their elbows 
to angularity, just at the time of life when their island sisters round out 
into a comfortable and becoming amplitude and fulness ? It it is the fog 
and the sea-coal, why, then, lam afraid we shall never come xxp with 
them. But perhaps there may be other causes why a counti'y which stai'ta 


166 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

some of the most beautiful girls in the world produces so few beautiful 
women. Have not our close heated stove-rooms something to do with it ? 
Have not the immense amount of hot biscuits, hot corn calces, and other 
compounds got up with the acrid poison of saleratus, something to do with 
it ? Above all, has not our climate, with its alternate extremes of heat 
and cold, a tendency to induce habits of in-door indolence ? Climate, cer¬ 
tainly, has a great deal to do with it; ours is evidently more trying and 
more exhausting; and because it is so, we should not pile upon its back 
errors of dress and diet which are avoided by our neighbours. They keep 
their beauty because they keep their health. It has been as remarkable as 
anything to me, since I have been here, that I do not constantly, as at 
home, hear one and another spoken of as in miserable health, as very deli¬ 
cate, &c. Health seems to be the rule, and not the exception. For my 
part, I must say, the most favourable omen that I know of for female 
beauty in America is, the multiplication of water-cure establishments, 
where our ladies, if they get nothing else, do gain some ideas as to the 
necessity of fresh air, regular exercise, simple diet, and the laws of hygiene 
in general. 

There is one thing more which goes a long way towards the continued 
health of these English ladies, and therefore towards their beauty; and that 
is, the quietude and perpetuity of their domestic institutions. They do not, 
like us, fade their cheeks lying awake nights ruminating the awful ques¬ 
tion, who shall do the washing next week, or who shall take the chamber¬ 
maid’s place who is going to be married, or that of the cook, who has 
signified her intention of parting with the mistress. Their hospitality is 
never embarrassed by the consideration that their whole kitchen cabinet 
may desert at the moment that their guests arrive. They are not obliged 
to choose between washing their own dishes, or having their cut glass, 
silver, and china, left to the mercy of a foreigner, who has never done 
anything but field-work. And last, not least, they are not possessed with 
the ambition to do the impossible in all branches which, I believe, is the 
death of a third of the women in America. What is there ever read of in 
books, or described in foreign travel, as attained by people in possession of 
every means and appliance, which our women will not undertake, single- 
handed, in spite of every providential indication to the contrary ? Who is 
not cognizant of dinner parties invited, in which the lady of the house has 
figured successively as confectioner, cook, dining-room girl, and, lastly, 
rushed up stairs to bathe her glowing cheeks, smooth her hair, draw on 
satin dress and kid gloves, and appear in the drawing-room as if nothing 
were the matter? Certainly, the undaunted bravery of our American 
females can never enough be admired. Other women can play gracefully 
the head of the establishment ; but who, like them, could be bead, hand, and 
foot, all at once ? 

As I have spoken of stoves, I will here remark that I have not yet seen 
one in England ; neither, so far as I can remember, have I seen a house 
warmed by a furnace. Bright coal fires, in grates of polished steel, are as 
yet the lares and penates of Old England. If I am inclined to mourn over 
any defection in my own country, it is the closing up of the cheerful open 
fire, with its bright lights and dancing shadows, and the planting on our 
domestic hearth of that sullen, stilling gnome, the ail-tight. I agree with 


STOKE NEWINGTON. 167 

Hawthorne in thinking the movement fatal to patriotism ; for who would 
fight for an air-tight! 

1 have run on a good way beyond our evening company; so good by for 
the present. 


LETTER XXI. 

STOKE NEWINGTON.—EXETEB HALL,—ANTISLAVERY MEETING. 

Mat 13. 

Dear Father :— 

To-day wo are to go out to visit your Quaker friend, Mr. Alexander, at 
Stoke Newington, where you passed so many pleasant hours during your 
sojourn in England. At half past nine we went into the Congregational 
Union, which is now in session. I had a seat upon the platform, where I 
could command a view of the house. It was a most interesting assemblage 
to me, recalling forcibly our New England associations, and impressing 
more than ever on my mind how much of one blood the two countries are. 
These earnest, thoughtful, intelligent-looking men seemed to transport me 
back to my own country. They received us with most gratifying cordiality 
and kindness. Most naturally Congregationalism in England must turn 
with deep interest and sympathy to Congregationalism in America. In 
several very cordial addresses they testified their pleasure at seeing us 
among them, speaking most affectionately of you and your labours, and your 
former visit to England. The wives and daughters of many of them 
present expressed in their countenances the deepest and most affectionate 
feeling. It is cheering to feel that an ocean does not divide our hearts, and 
that the Christians of America and England are one. 

In the afternoon we drove out to Mr. Alexander’s. His place is called 
Paradise, ana very justly, being one more of those home Edens in which 
England abounds, where, without ostentation or display, every appliance of 
rational enjoyment surrounds one. 

We were ushered into a cheerful room, opeuing by one glass door upon 
a brilliant conservatory of flowers, and by another upon a neatly-kept 
garden. The air was fresh and sweet with the perfume of blossoming 
trees, and everything seemed doubly refreshing from the contrast with the 
din and smoke of London. Our chamber looked out upon a beautiful park, 
shaded with fine old trees. While contemplating the white draperies of 
our windows, and the snowy robings of the bed, we could not but call 
to mind the fact, of which we were before aware, that not an article 
was the result of the unpaid toil of the slave ; neither did this restric¬ 
tion, voluntarily assumed, fetter at all the bountifulness of the table, 
where free-grown sugar, coffee, rice, and spices seemed to derive a double 
value to our friends from this consideration. 

Some of the Quakers carry the principle so far as to refuse money in a 
business transaction which they have reason to believe has been gained 
by the unpaid toil of the slave. A Friend in Edinburgh told me of a 
brother of his in the city of Carlisle, who kept a celebrated biscuit 
oakery, who received an order from New Orleans for a thousand dollars 
worth of biscuits. Before closing the bargain he took the buyer into 
his counting room, and told him that lie had conscientious objections abou 



1G8 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


receiving money from slaveholders, and that in case he were one he should 
prefer not to trade with him. Fortunately, in this case, consistency and 
interest were both on one side. 

Things like these cannot but excite reflection in one’s mind, and the 
query must arise, if all who really believe slavery to be a wrong should 
pursue this course, what would be the result? There are great practical 
difficulties in the way of such a course, particularly in America, where the 
subject has received comparatively little attention, Pet since I have been 
in England, I am informed by the Friends here, that there has been for 
many years an association of Friends in Philadelphia, who have sent their 
agents through the entire Southern States, entering by them into communi¬ 
cation with quite a considerable number scattered through the states, who, 
either from poverty or principle, raise their cotton by free labour; and they 
have established a depot in Philadelphia, and also a manufactory, where 
the cotton thus received is made into various household articles; and thus, 
by dint of some care and self-sacrifice, many of them are enabled to abstain 
entirely from any participation with the results of this crime. 

As soon as I heard this fact, it flashed upon my mind immediately, that 
the beautiful cotton lands of Texas are as yet unoccupied to a great extent; 
that no law compels cotton to be raised there by slave labour, and that it 
is beginning to be raised there to some extent by the labour of free German 
emigrants.* Will not something eventually grow out of this ? I trust so. 
Even the smallest chink of light is welcome in a prison, if it speak of a 
possible door which courage and zeal may open. I cannot as yet admit the 
justness of the general proposition, that it is an actual sin to eat, drink, or 
wear anything which has been the result of slave labour, because it seems 
to me to be based upon a principle altogether too wide in extent. To be 
consistent in it, we must extend it to the results of all labour which is not 
conducted on j ust and equitable principles; and in order to do this con¬ 
sistently, we must needs, as St. Paul says, go out of the world. But if 
two systems, one founded on wrong and robbery, and the other on right 
and justice, are competing with each other, should we not patronise the 
right ? 

I am the more inclined to think that some course of this kind is indicated 
to the Christian world, from the reproaches and taunts which proslavery 
papers are casting upon us, for patronizing their cotton. At all events, the 
Quakers escape the awkwardness of this dilemma. 

In the evening quite a large circle of friends came to meet us. We were 
particularly interested in the conversation of Mr. and Mrs. Wesby, mis¬ 
sionaries from Antigua. Antigua is the only one of the islands in which, 
emancipation was immediate, without any previous apprenticeship system ; 
and it is the one in which the results of emancipation have been altogether 
the most happy. They gave us a very interesting account of their schools, 
and showed us some beautiful specimens of plain needlework, which had 
been wrought by young girls in them. They confirmed all the accounts 
which I have heard from other sources of the peaceableness, docility, and 
good character of the negroes ; of their kindly disposition and willingness to 
receive instruction. 

After tea Mr. S. and I walked out a little while, first to a large cemetery, 
* One small town in Texas made eight hundred bales last year by free labour. 


DR. WATT3. 


169 

w'hei’e repose the ashes of Dr. Watts. This burying-ground occupies the 
site of the dwelling and grounds formerly covered by the residence of Sir 
T. Abney, with whom Dr. Watts spent many of the last years of his life. 
It has always seemed to me that Dr. Watts’s rank as a poet lias never been 
properly appreciated. If ever there was a poet born, he was that man ; he 
attained without study a smoothness of versification, which, with Pope, was 
the result of the intensest analysis and most artistic care. Nor do the most 
majestic and resounding lines of Dryden equal some of his in majesty of 
volume. The most harmonious lines of Dryden, that I know of, are 
these :— 

“ When Jubal struck the chorded shell, 

His listening brethren stood around. 

And wondering, on their faces fell. 

To worship that celestial sound. 

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell. 

That spoke so sweetly and so well.” 

The first four lines of this always seem to me magnificently harmonious. 
But almost any verse at random in Dr. Watts’s paraphrase of the one 
hundred and forty-eighth Psalm exceeds them, both in melody and majesty. 
For instance, take these lines :— 

“ Wide as his vast dominion lies, 

Let the Creator’s name be known; 

Loud as his thunder shout his praise. 

And sound it lofty as his throne. 

“ Speak of the wonders of that love 

Which Gabriel plays on every chord: 

From all below and all above, 

Loud hallelujahs to the Lord.” 

Simply as a specimen of harmonious versification, I would place this 
paraphrase by Dr. Watts above everything in the English language, not 
even excepting Pope’s Messiah. But in hymns, where the ideas are 
supplied by his own soul, we have examples in which fire, fervour, imagery, 
roll from the soul of the poet in a stream of versification, evidently sponta¬ 
neous. Such are all tho^e hymns in which he describes the glories of the 
heavenly state, and the advent of the great events foretold in pi*ophecy ; for 
instance, this verse from the opening of one of his judgment hymns :— 

“ Lo, I behold the scattered shades ; 

The dawn of heaven appears; 

The sweet immortal morning sheds 
Its blushes round the spheres.” 

Dr. Johnson, in his Lives of the Poets, turns him off with small praise, 
it is true, saying that his devotional poetry is like that of others, unsatis- 
factory ; graciously adding that it is sufficient for him to have done better 
than others what no one has done well; and, lastly, that he is one of those: 
poets with whom youth and ignorance may safely be pleased. But if Dr. 
Johnson thought Irene was poetry, it is not singular that he should think 
the lyrics of Watts were not. 

Stoke Newington is also celebrated as the residence of' Defoe. We passed 
by, in our walk, the ancient mansion in which he lived. New River, which 
passes through the grounds of our host, is an artificial stream which is said 


170 RUNNY MEMORIES OR FOREIGN LANDS. 

to have been first suggested by bis endlessly fertile and industrious mind, 
as productive in practical projects as in books. 

It always seemed to me that there are three writers which every one who 
wants to know how to use the English language effectively should study; 
and these are Shakspeare, Bunyan, and Defoe. One great secret of their 
hold on the popular mind is their being so radically and thoroughly English. 
They have the solid grain of the English oak, not veneered by learning and 
the classics ; not inlaid with arabesques from other nations, but developing 
wholly out of the English nationality. 

I have heal'd that Goethe said the reason for the great enthusiasm with 
which his countrymen regarded him was that he clid know how to write 
German, and so also these men knew how to write English. I think Defoe 
the most suggestive writer to an artist of fiction that the English language 
affords. That power by which he wrought fiction to produce the impression 
of reality, so that his Plague in London was quoted by medical men as 
an authentic narrative, and his Life of a Cavalier recommended by Lord 
Chatham as an historical authority, is certainly worth an analysis. With 
him, undoubtedly, it was an instinct. 

One anecdote, related to us this evening by our friends, brought to mind 
with new power the annoyances to which the Quakers have been subjected 
in England, under the old system of church rates. It being contrary to the 
conscientious principles of the Quakers to pay these church rates volunta¬ 
rily, they allowed the officer of the law to enter their houses and take 
whatever article he pleased in satisfaction of the claim. On one occasion, 
for the satisfaction of a claim of a few pounds, they seized and sold a most 
rare and costly mantle clock, which had a particular value as a choice speci¬ 
men of mechanical skill, and which was worth four or five times the sum 
owed. A friend afterwards repurchased and presented it to the owner. 

We were rejoiced to hear that these church rates are now virtually 
abolished. The liberal policy pursued in England for the last twenty-five 
years is doing more to make the church of England, and the government 
generally, respectable and respected than the most extortionate exactions of 
violence. 

We parted from our kind friends in the morning; came back and I sat a 
•while to Mr. Burnard, the sculptor, who entertained me "with various anec¬ 
dotes. He had taken the bust of the Prince of Wales; and I gathered 
from his statements that young princes have very much the same feelings 
and desires that other little boys have, and that he has a very judicious 
mother. 

In the afternoon, Mr. S., Mrs. B., and I had a pleasant drive in Hyde 
Park, as I used to read of heroines of romance doing in the old novels. 
It is delightful to get into this fairy land of parks, so green and beautiful, 
which embellish the West End. 

In the evening we had an engagement at turn places—at a Highland 
School dinner, and at Mr. Charles Dickens’. I felt myself too much ex¬ 
hausted for both, and so it was concluded that I should go to neither, but 
try a little quiet drive into the country, and an early retirement, as the 
most prudent termination of the week. While Mr. S. prepared to go to 
the meeting of the Highland School Society, Mr. and Mrs. B. took me a 
little drive into the country. xAffcer a while they alighted before a new 
Gothic Congregational college, in St. John’s Wood. I found that there had 


EXETEE HALL. 171 

been a land of tea-drinking there by the Congregational ministers and their 
families, to celebrate the opening of the college. 

On returning, we called for Mr. S., at the dinner, and went for a few 
moments into the gallery, the entertainment being now nearly over. Here 
we heard some Scottish songs, very charmingly sung ; and, what amused 
me very much, a few Highland musicians, dressed in full costume, occa¬ 
sionally marched through the hall, playing on their bagpipes, as was cus¬ 
tomary in old Scottish entertainments. The historian, Archibald Alison, 
sheriff of Lanarkshire, sat at the head of the table—a tall, fine-looking man, 
of very commanding presence. 

About nine o’clock we retired. 

May 15. Heard Mr. Binney preach this morning. He is one of the 
strongest men among the Congregationalists, and a very popular speaker. 
He is a tall, large man, with a finely-built head, high forehead, piercing, 
dark eye, and a good deal of force and determination in all his movements. 
His sermon was the first that I had heard in England which seemed to 
recognise the existence of any possible sceptical or rationalizing element in 
the minds of his hearers. It was in this respect more like the preaching 
that I had been in the habit of hearing at home. Instead of a calm state¬ 
ment of certain admitted religious facts, or exhortations founded upon 
them, his discourse seemed to be reasoning with individual cases, and an¬ 
swering various forms of objections, such as might arise in different minds. 
This mode of preaching, I think, cannot exist unless a minister cultivates 
an individual knowledge of his people. 

Mr. Binney’s work, entitled, How to make the best of both Worlds, 
I have heard spoken of as having had the largest sale of any religious writ¬ 
ing of the present day. 

May 16. This evening is the great antislavery meeting at Exeter Hall. 
Lord Shaftesbury in the chair. Exeter Hall stands befox-e the public as the 
representation of the sti-ong democratic, religious element of England. In 
Exeter Hall are all the philanthropies, foreign and domestic; and a ci-owded 
meeting there gives one perhaps a better idea of the force of English demo¬ 
cracy—of that kind of material which goes to make up the mass of the 
nation —than anything else. 

When Macaulay expressed some sentiments which gave offence to this 
portion of the community, he made a defence in which he alluded sarcasti- 
cally to the bi-ay of Exeter Hall. The expression seems to have been remem¬ 
bered, for I have often heard it quoted; though I believe they have forgiven 
him for it, and concluded to accept it as a joke. 

The hall this night was densely crowded, and, as I felt very unwell, I 
did not go in till after the services had commenced—a thing which I gi-eatly 
regretted afterwards, as by this means I lost a most able speech by Loi’d 
Shaftesbury. 

The Duchess of Sutherland entered soon after the commencement of the 
exei’cises, and was most enthusiastically cheered. When we came in, a 
seat had been reserved for us by her grace in the side gallery, and the 
cheering was l'epeated. I thought I had heard something of the sort in 
Scotland, but there was a vehemence about this that made me ti’emble. 
There is always something awful to my mind about a dense crowd in a state 
of high excitement, let the nature of that excitement be what it will. 

I do not believe that there is in all America more vehemence of demo- 


SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


£72 

cracy, more volcanic force of power, than comes out in one of these great 
gatherings iii our old fatherland. I saw plainly enough where Concord, 
Lexington, and Bunker Hill came from; and it seems to me there is enough 
of this element of indignation at wrong, and resistance to tyranny, to found 
half a dozen more republics as strong as we are. 

A little incident that occurred gave me an idea of what such a crowd 
might become in a confused state of excitement. A woman fainted in a 
distant part of the house, and a policeman attempted to force a way through 
the densely-packed crowd. The seiwices were interrupted. for a few mo¬ 
ments, and there were hoarse surgings and swellings of the mighty mass, 
who were so closely packed that they moved together like waves. Some 
began to rise in their seats, and some cried, ‘ ‘ Oi’der ! order !” And one 
could easily see, that were a sudden panic or overwhelming excitement to 
break up the order of the meeting, what a terrible scene might ensue. 

“ What is it?’’ said I to a friend who sat next to me. 

“A pickpocket, perhaps,” said she. “I am afraid we are going to 
have a row. They are going to give you one of our genuine Exeter Hall 
‘ brays' ” 

I felt a good deal fluttered; but the Duchess of Sutherland, who knew 
the British lion better than I did, seemed so perfectly collected that I be¬ 
came reassured. 

The character of the speeches at this meeting, with the exception of 
Lord Shaftesbury’s, was more denunciatory, and had more to pain the 
national feelings of an American, than any I had ever attended. It was 
the real old Saxon battle-axe of Brother John, swung without fear or 
favour. Such things do not hurt me individually, because I have such a 
radical faith in my country, such a genuine belief that she will at last 
right herself from every wrong, that I feel she can afford to have these 
things said. 

Mr. S. spoke on this point, that the cotton trade of Great Britain is the 
principal suppoi’t to slavery, and read exti’acts from Charleston papers in 
which they boldly declare that they do not care for any amount of moral 
indignation wasted upon them by nations who, after all, must and will buy 
the cotton which they raise. 

The meeting was a very long one, and I was much fatigued when we 
returned. 

To-morrow we are to make a little run out to Windsor. 


LETTER XXII. 

WIXD50R,—THU PICTURE GALLERY.—ETON - .—THE POET GRAY, 
n ivr Mat 18 ‘ 

Dear M. :— 

I can compare the embarrassment of our London life, with its multiplied 
solicitations and infinite stimulants to curiosity and desire, only to that 
annual perplexity which used to beset us in our childhood on thanksgiving 
day. Having been kept all the year within the limits which prudence 
assigns to well-regulated children, came at last the governor’s proclamation, 
and a general Saturnalia of dainties for the little ones. For one day the 



WINDSOR. 


173 

gates of licence were thrown open, and we, plumped down into the midst of 
pie and pudding, exceeding all conception but that of a Yankee house¬ 
keeper, were left to struggle our way out as best we might. 

So here, beside all the living world of London, its scope and range of 
persons and circles of thought, come its architecture, its arts, its localities, 
historic, poetic, all that expresses its past, its pi'esent, and its future. 
Every day and every hour brings its conflicting allurements, of persons to be 
seen, places to be visited, things to be done, beyond all computation. Like 
Miss Edgeworth’s philosophic little Frank, we are obliged to make out our 
list of what man must want, and of what he may want; and in our list of 
the former we set down in large and decisive characters, one quiet day for 
the exploration and enjoyment of Windsor. 

We were solicited, indeed, to go in another direction; a party was formed 
to go down the Thames with the Eight Hon. Sidney Herbert, secretary at 
war, and visit an emigrant ship just starting for Australia. I should say 
here, that since Mrs. Chisholm’s labours have awakened the attention of 
the English public to the wants and condition of emigrants, the benevolent 
people of England take great interest in the departing of emigrant ships. A 
society has been formed, called the Family Colonization Loan Society, and 
a fund raised by which money can be loaned to those desiring to emigrate. 
This society makes it an object to cultivate acquaintance and intimacy among 
those about going out by uniting them into groups, and, as far as possible, 
placing orphan children and single females under the protection of families. 
Any one, by subscribing six guineas towards the loan, can secure one pas¬ 
sage. Each individual becomes responsible for refunding his own fare, and, 
furthermore, to pay a certain assessment in case any individual of the group 
fails to make up the passage money. The sailing of emigrant ships, there¬ 
fore, has become a scene of great interest. Those departing do not leave 
their native shore without substantial proofs of the interest and care of the 
laud they are leaving. 

In the party who were going down to-day were Mr. and Mrs. Binney, Mr. 
Sherman, and a number of distinguished names; among whom I recollect 
to have heard the names of Lady Hatherton, and Lady Byron, widow of the 
poet. This would have been an exceedingly interesting scene to us, but 
being already worn with qqmpany and excitement, we preferred a quiet day 
at Windsor. 

For if we took Warwick as the representative feudal estate, we took 
Windsor as the representative palace, that which embodies the English idea 
of royalty. Apart from this, Windsor has been immortalised by the Merry 
Wives; it has still standing in its park the Herne oak, where the mis¬ 
chievous fairies played their pranks upon old Falstaff. 

And the castle still has about it the charm of the poet’s invocation:— 

“ Search Windsor Castle, elves, within, without. 

Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room. 

That it may stand till the perpetual doom 
In state as wholesome as in state ’tis fit. 

Worthy the owner, and the owner it. 

The several chairs of order, look you, scour 
With juice of balm and every precious flower, 

Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest, 

Withloyal blazon evermore be blest. 

And nightly, meadow faries, look yon, sing 
Like to the garter’s compass, in a ring. 




174 


SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


The expressure that it bears, green let it bo, 

More fertile, fresh, than all the Held to see. 

And Honi soit qui real y pense, write 

In emerald tufts, flowers, purple, blue, and white. 

Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, 

Fairies use flowers for their charactery.” 

As if for the royal purpose of recommending old Windsor, the English 
shies had cleared tip into brightness. About nine o’clock we fuund our¬ 
selves in the cars, riding through a perpetual garden of blooming trees and 
blossoming hedges ; birds in a perfect fury of delight. Our spirits were all 
elated. Good, honest, cackling Mrs. Quickly herself was not more disposed 
to make the best of everything and everybody than were we. Mr. S., in 
particular, was so joyous that I was afraid he would break out into song, 
after the fashion of Sir Hugh Evans,— 


“ Melodious birds sung madrigals: 

"When as I sat in Babylon, 1 ’ &c. 

By the by, the fishing ground of Izaak Walton isone of the localities con¬ 
nected with Windsor. 

The ride was done all too soon. One should not whirl through such a 
choice bit of England in the cars ; one should rather wish to amble over the 
way after a sleepy, contemplative old horse, as we used to make rural ex¬ 
cursions in New England ere yet railroads were. However, all that’s bright 
must fade, and this among the rest. 

About eleven o’clock we found ourselves going up the old stone steps to 
the castle. It was the last day of a fair which had been holden in this part 
of the country, and crowds of the common people were flocking to the castle, 
men, women, and children pattering up the stairs before and after us. 

We went first through the state apartments. The principal thing that 
interested me was the ball room, which was a perfect gallery of Vandyke’s 
paintings. Here was certainly an opportunity to know what Vandyke is. 
I should call him a true court painter—a master of splendid conventionali¬ 
ties, whose portraits of kings are the most powerful arguments for the 
divine right I know of. Nevertheless, beyond conventionality and outward 
magnificence, his ideas have no range. Be suggests nothing to the moral 
and ideal part of us. Here again was the picture of King Charles on horse¬ 
back, which had interested me at Warwick. It had, however, a peculiar 
and romantic charm from its position at the end of that long, dim corridor, 
vis-a-vis with the masque of Cromwell, which did not accompany it here, 
where it was but one among a set of pictures. 

There was another, presenting the front side and three quarters face of 
the same sovereign, painted by Vandyke for Benini to make a bust from. 
There were no less than five portraits of his wife, Henrietta Maria, in 
different dresses and attitudes, and two pictures of their children. No 
sovereign is so profusely and perseveringly represented. 

The queen’s audience chamber is hung with tapestry representing scenes 
from the book of Esther. This tapestry made a very great impression upon 
me. A knowledge of the difficulties to be overcome in the material part of 
painting is undoubtedly an unsuspected element of much of the pleasure we 
derive from it; and for this reason, probably, this tapestry appeared to us 
better than paintings executed with equal spirit in oils. We admired it 






WINDSOB. 175 

exceedingly, entirely careless of what critics might think of us if they 
knew it. 

Another room was hung with Gobelin tapestry representing the whole of 
the tragedy of Medea. First you have Jason cutting down the golden 
fleece, Avhile the dragon lies slain, and Medea is looking on in admiration. 
In another he pledges his love to Medea. In a third, the men sprung from 
the dragon’s teeth are seen contending with each other. In another the 
unfaithful lover espouses Creusa. In the next Creusa is seen burning in 
the poisoned shirt given her by Medea. In another Medea is seen in a car 
drawn by dragons, bearing her two children by Jason, whom she has stabbed 
in revenge for his desertion. Nothing can exceed the ghastly reality of 
death, as shown in the stiffened limbs and sharpened features of these dead 
children. The whole drawing and grouping is exceedingly spirited and life¬ 
like, and has great power of impression. 

I was charmed also by nine landscapes of Zuccarelli, which adorn the 
state drawing room. Zuccarelli was a follower of Claude, and these pictures 
far exceed in effect any of Claude’s I have yet seen. The charm of them 
does not lie merely in the atmospheric tints and effects, as those of Cuyp, 
but in the rich and fanciful combination of objects. In this respect they 
perform in painting what the first part of the Castle of Indolence, or Ten¬ 
nyson’s Lotus Eaters, do in poetry—evoke a fairy land. There was some¬ 
thing peculiar about their charm for me. 

Who can decide how much in a picture belongs to the idiosyncrasies and 
associations of the person who looks upon it. Artists undoubtedly power¬ 
ful and fine may have nothing in them which touches the nervous 
sympathies and tastes of some persons: who, therefore, shall establish any 
authoritative canon of taste ? who shall say that Claude is finer than Zuc¬ 
carelli, or Zuccarelli than Claude ? A man might as well say that the 
woman who enchants him is the only true Venus for the world. 

Then, again, how much in painting or in poetry depends upon the frame 
of mind in which we see or hear ! Whoever looks on these pictures, ox- 
reads the Lotus Eaters or Castle of Indolence, at a time when soul and 
body are weary, and longing for i*etirement and rest, will receive an im- 
pi*ession from them such as could never be made on the stx'ong nerves of our 
moi’e healthful and hilarious seasons. 

Certainly no emotions so rigidly reject ci'itical restraints, and disdain to 
be bound by rule, as those excited by the fine aits. A man unimpressible 
and incapable of moods and tenses, is for that reason an incompetent critic 
and the sensitive, excitable man, how can he know that he does not impose 
his peculiar mood as a general rule ? 

From the state rooms w r e were taken to the top of the Round Tower, 
where we gained a magnificent view of the Park of Windsor, with its regal 
avenue, miles in length, of ancient oaks; its sweeps of greensward; clumps 
of trees; its old Herne oak, of classic memory; in shoi't, all that constitutes 
the idea of a perfect English landscape. The English tree is shorter and 
stouter than ours; its foliage dense and deep, lying with a full, rounding 
outline against the sky. Everything here conveys the idea of concentrated 
vitality, but without that rank luxuriance seen in our American growth. 
Having unfortunately exhausted the English language on the subject of 
grass, I will not repeat any ecstasies upon that topic. 

After descending from the tower we filed off to the proper quarter, to 


176 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

show our orders for the private rooms. The state apartments, which We 
had been looking at, are open at all times, but the private apartments can 
only be seen in the queen’s absence, and by a special permission, which 
had been procured for us on this occasion by the kindness of the Duchess of 
Sutherland. 

One of the first objects that attracted my attention when entering the 
vestibule was a baby’s wicker waggon, standing in one corner; it was much 
such a carriage as all mothers are familiar with ; such as figures largely in 
the history of almost every family. It had neat curtains and cushions of 
green merino, and was not royal, only maternal. I mused over the little 
thing with a good deal of interest. It is to my mind one of the provi¬ 
dential signs of our times, that, at this stormy and most critical period 
of the world’s history, the sovereignty of the most powerful nation on 
earth is represented by a woman and a mother. How many humanizing, 
gentle, and pacific influences constantly emanate from this centre ! 

One of the most interesting apartments was a long comdor, hung with 
paintings, and garnished along the sides with objects of art and virtu. 
Here C. and I renewed a dispute which had been for some time pending, in 
respect to Canaletto’s paintings. This Canaletto was a Venetian painter, 
who was born about 1697, and died in London in 1768, and w r as greatly in 
vogue with the upper circles in those days. He delighted in architectural 
paintings, which he represents with the accuracy of a daguerreotype, 
and a management of perspective, chiaro oscuro, and all the other mys¬ 
teries of art, such as make his paintings amount to about the same as the 
reality. 

Well, here, in this corridor, we had him in full force. Here was Venice 
served up to order—its streets, palaces, churches, bridges, canals, and 
gondolas made as real to our eye as if we were looking at them out of a 
window. I admired them very warmly, but I could not go into the rap¬ 
tures that C. did, who kept calling me from everything else that I wanted 
to see to come and look at this Canaletto. “Well, I see it,” said I; 
“ it is good—it is perfect—it cannot be bettered; but what then ? There 
is the same difference between these and a landscape of Zuccarelli as there 
is between a neatly-arranged statistical treatise and a poem. The latter 
suggests a thousand images, the former gives you only information.” 

We were quite interested in a series of paintings which represented the 
various events of the present queen’s history. There was the coronation 
in Westminster Abbey—that national romance which, for once in our pro¬ 
saic world, nearly turned the heads of all the sensible people on earth. 
Think of vesting the sovereignty of so much of the world in a fair young 
girl of seventeen ! The pictui’e is a very pretty one, and is taken at the 
very moment she is kneeling at the feet of the Archbishop of Canterbury 
to receive her crown. She is represented as a fair-haired, interesting girl, 
the simplicity of her air contrasting strangely with the pomp and gorgeous 
display around. The painter has done justice to a train of charming young 
ladies who surround her; among the faces I recognised the blue eyes and 
noble forehead of the Duchess of Sutherland. 

Then followed, in due order, the baptism of children, the reception of 
poor old Louis Philippe in his exile, and various other matters of the sort 
tvhicli go to make up royal pictures. 

In the family breakfast-room we saw some fine Gobelin tapestry, repre- 


st. George’s chapel. 


177 

seating tlie classical story of Meleager. In one of tlie rooms, on a pedestal, 
stood a gigantic china vase, a present from the Emperor of Russia, and in 
the state rooms before we had seen a large malachite vase from the same 
donor. The toning of this room, with regard to colour, was like that of 
the room I described in Stafford House—the carpet of green ground, with 
the same little leaf upon it, the walls, chairs, and sofas covered with green 
damask. Around the walls of the room, in some places, were arranged 
cases of books about three feet high. I liked this arrangement particu¬ 
larly, because it gives you the companionship of books in an apartment 
without occupying that space of the wall which is advantageous for pic¬ 
tures. Moreover, books placed high against the walls of a room give a 
gloomy appearance to the apartment. 

The whole air of these rooms was very charming, suggestive of refined 
taste and domestic habits. The idea of home, which pervades everything 
in England, from the cottage to the palace, was as much suggested here as 
in any apartments I have seen. The walls of the different rooms were 
decorated with portraits of the members of the royal family, and those of 
other European princes. 

After this we went through the kitchen department—saw the silver and 
gold plate of the table; among the latter were some designs which I 
thought particularly graceful. To conclude all, we went through the 
stables. The man who showed them told us that several of the queen’s 
favourite hoi’ses were taken to Osborne; but there were many beautiful 
creatures left, which I regarded with great complacency. The stables and 
stalls were perfectly clean, and neatly kept; and one, in short, derives 
from the whole view of the economics of Windsor that satisfaction which 
results from seeing a thing thoroughly done in the best conceivable 
manner. 

The management of the estate of Windsor is, I am told, a model for all 
landholders in the kingdom. A society has been formed there, within a 
few years, under the patronage of the Queen, Prince Albert, and the 
Duchess of Kent, in which the clergy and gentry of the principal parishes 
in this vicinity are interested, for improving the condition of the labouring 
classes in this region. The Queen and Prince Albert have taken much 
interest in the planning arid arranging of model houses for the labouring 
people, which combine cheapness, neatness, ventilation, and all the faci¬ 
lities for the formation of good personal habits. There is a school kept 
on the estate at Windsor, in which the Queen takes a very practical 
interest, regulating the books and studies, and paying frequent visits to 
it during the time of her sojourn here. The young girls are instructed in 
fine needlework; but the Queen discourages embroidery and ornamental 
work, meaning to make practical, efficient wives for labouring men. These 
particulars, with regard to this school, were related to me by a lady living 
in the vicinity of Windsor. 

We went into St. George’s Chapel, and there we were all exceedingly 
interested and enchained in view of the marble monument to tk 
Princess Charlotte. It consists of two groups, and is designed to 
express, in one view, both the celestial and the terrestrial aspect 
of death—the visible and the invisible part of dying. For the visible 
part, you have the body of the princess in all the desolation and aban¬ 
donment of death. Tlie attitude of the figure is as if she had thrown 

N 


178 SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 

herself over in a convulsion, and died. The body is lying listless, simply 
covered with a sheet, through every fold of which you can see the utter 
relaxation of that moment when vitality departs, but the limbs have not 
yet stiffened. Her hand and a part of the arm are hanging down, exposed 
to view beneath the sheet. 

Four figures, with bowed heads, covered with drapery, are represented 
as sitting around in mute despair. The idea meant to be conveyed by the 
whole group is that of utter desolation and abandonment. All is over; 
there is not even heart enough left in the mourners to straighten the 
corpse for the burial. The mute marble says, as plainly as marble can 
speak, “ Let all go; ’tis no matter now; there is no more use in living—- 
nothing to be done, nothing to be hoped !” 

Above this group rises the form of the princess, springing buoyant and 
elastic, on angel wings, a smile of triumph and aspiration lighting up her 
countenance. Her drapery floats behind her as she rises. Two angels, 
one carrying her infant child, and the other with clasped hands of exultant 
joy, are rising with her, in serene and solemn triumph. 

Now, I simply put it to you, or to any one who can judge of poetry, if 
this is not a poetical conception. I ask any one who has a heart, if there 
is not pathos in it. Is there not a high poetic merit in the mere con¬ 
ception of these two scenes, thus presented? And had we seen it rudely 
chipped and chiselled out by some artist of the middle ages, whose hand 
had not yet been practised to do justice to his conceptions, should we not 
have said this sculptor had a glorioiis thought within him ? But the chi¬ 
selling of this piece is not unworthy the conception. Nothing can be more 
exquisite than the turn of the head, neck, and shoulders; nothing more 
finely wrought than the triumphant smile of the angel princess; nothing 
could be more artistic than the representation of death in all its hope¬ 
lessness, in the lower figure. The poor, dead hand, that shows itself 
beneath the sheet, has an unutterable pathos and beauty in it. As to the 
working of the drapery,—an inferior consideration, of course,—I see no 
reason why it should not compare advantageously with any in the British 
Museum. 

Well, you will ask, why are you going on in this argumentative style? 
Who doubts you ? Let me tell you, then, a little fragment of my expe¬ 
rience. We saw this group of statuary the last thing before dinner, after 
a most fatiguing forenoon of sight-seeing, when we were both tired and 
hungry,—a most unpropitious time certainly,—and yet it enchanted our 
whole company; what is more, it made us all cry—a fact of which I am 
not ashamed, yet. But, only the next day, when I was expressing my 
admiration to an artist, who is one of the authorities, and knows all that 
s proper to be admired, I was met with,— 

“ 0, you have seen that, have you? Shocking thing ! Miserable taste 
—miserable!” 

“ Dear me,” said I, with apprehension, “ what is the matter with it ?” 

“0,” said he, “melodramatic, melodramatic—terribly so !” 

I was so appalled by this word, of whose meaning I had not a very clear 
idea, that I dropped the defence at once, and determined to reconsider my 
tears. To have been actually made to cry by a thing that was melodra¬ 
matic, was a distressing consideration. Seriously, however, on reconsidering 
the objection, I see no sense in it A thing may be melodramatic, or any 



ETON—CRAY. 


179 

other atic that a man pleases; so that it be strongly suggestive, poetic, 
«, pathetic, it has a right to its own peculiar place in the world of art. If 
artists had had their way in the creation of this world, there would have 
been only two or three kinds of things in it; the first three or four things 
that God created would have been enacted into fixed rules for making all 
the rest. 

But they let the works of nature alone, because they know there is no 
hope for them, and content themselves with enacting rules in literature and 
art, which make all the perfection and grace of the past so many impassable 
barriers to progress in future. Because the ancients kept to unity of idea 
in their groups, and attained to most beautiful results by doing so, shall no 
modern make an antithesis in marble ? And why has not a man a right to 
dramatize in marble as well as on canvas, if he can produce a powerful and 
effective result by so doing ? And even if by being melodramatic, as the 
terrible word is, he can shadow forth a grand and comforting religious idea 
—if he can unveil to those who have seen only the desolation of death, its 
glory, and its triumph—who shall say that he may not do so, because he 
violates the lines of some old Greek artist ? "Where would Shakspeare’s 
dramas have been, had he studied the old dramatic unities ? 

So, you see, like an obstinate republican, as I am, I defend my right to 
have my own opinion about this monument, albeit the guide book, with its 
usual diplomatic caution, says, “ It is in very questionable taste.” 

We went for our dinner to the White Hart, the very inn which Shak- 
speare celebrates in his “Merry Wives,” and had a most overflowing 
merry time of it. The fact is, we had not seen each other for so long that 
to be in each other’s company for a whole day was quite a stimulant. 

After dinner we had a beautiful drive, passing the colleges at Eton, and 
seeing the boys out playing cricket; had an excellent opportunity to think 
how true Gray’s poem on the “Prospect of Eton” is to boy nature then, 
now, and for ever. We were bent upon looking up the church which gave 
rise to his Elegy in a Counti’y Churchyard, intending when we got there, to 
have a little scene over it; Mr. S., in all the conscious importance of having 
been there before, assuring us that he knew exactly where it was. So, 
after some difficulty with our coachman, and being stopped at one church 
which would not answer our purpose in any respect, we were at last set 
down by one which looked authentic; embowered in mossy elms, with a 
most ancient and goblin yew tree, an ivy mantled tower, all perfect as 
could be. 

There had been a sprinkle of rain,—an ornament which few English days 
want,—and the westering beams of the sun twinkled through innumerable 
drops. In fact, it was a pretty place; and I felt such ‘ ‘ dispositions to 
melancholies,” as Sir Hugh Evans would have it, that I half resented Mr. 
S.’s suggestion that the cars were waiting. However, as he was engaged 
to speak at a peace meeting in London, it was agreed he should leave us 
there to stroll, while he took the cars. So away he went; and we, leaning 
on the old fence, repeated the Elegy, which certainly applies here as 
beautifully as language could apply. 

What a calm, shady, poetical nature is expressed in these lines ! Gray 
seems to have been sent into the world for nothing but to be a poem, like 
some of those fabulous, shadowy beings which haunted the cool grottoes on 
Grecian mountains ; creatures that seem to have no practical vitality—to be 

N 2 


180 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

only a kind of voice, an echo, heard for a little, and then lost in silence. 
He seemed to be in himself a kind of elegy. 

From thence we strolled along, enjoying the beautiful* rural scenery. 
Having had a kind invitation to visit Labouchere Park that day, which we 
were obliged to decline for want of time, we were pleased to discover that 
we had two more hours, in which we could easily accomplish a stroll there. 
By a most singular infelicity, our party became separated ; and, misunder¬ 
standing each other, we remained waiting for W. till it was too late for us 
to go, while he, on the other hand, supposing us to have walked before him, 
was redoubling his speed all the while, hoping to overtake us. In conse¬ 
quence of this, he accomplished the walk to Labouchere Park, and we 
waited in the dismal depot till it was too late to wait any longer, and 
finally went into London without him. 

After all, imagine our chagrin on being informed that we had not been 
to the genuine churchyard. The gentleman who wept over the scenes of 
his early days on the wrong doorstep was not more grievously disappointed. 
However, he and we could both console ourselves with the reflection that 
the emotion was admirable, and wanted only the right place to make it the 
most appropriate in the world. The genuine country churchyard, however, 
was that at Stoke Pogis, which we should have seen had not the fates for¬ 
bidden our going to Labouchere Park. 


LETTER XXIII. 

EEV. MR. GURNEY.—RICHMOND THE ARTIST.—KOSSUTH.—PEMBROKE LODGE.— 
DINNER AT LORD JOHN RUSSELL’S.—LAMBETH PALACE. 

Dear Sister:— 

The evening after our return from Windsor was spent with our kind 
friends, Mr. and Mrs. Gurney. Mr. Gurney is rector of Mary-le-Bone 
parish, one of the largest districts in London; and he is, I have been told, 
one of the court chaplains; a man of the most cultivated and agreeable 
manners, earnestly and devoutly engaged in the business of his calling. As 
one of the working men of the church establishment, I felt a strong interest 
in his views and opinions, and he seemed to take no less interest in mine, as 
coming from a country where there is and can be no church establishment. 
He asked many questions about America; the general style of our preach¬ 
ing ; the character of our theology; our modes of religious action; our re¬ 
vivals of religion ; our theories of sudden and instantaneous conversion, as 
distinguished from the gradual conversion of education ; our temperance 
societies, and the stand taken by our clergy in behalf of temperance. 

He wished to know how the English style of preaching appeared to me in 
comparison with that of America. I told him one principal difference that 
struck me was, that the English preaching did not recognise the existence 
of any element of inquiry or doubt in the popular mind; that it treated 
certain truths as axioms, which only needed to be stated to be believed; 
whereas in American sermons there is always more or less time employed in 
explaining, proving, and answering objections to the truths enforced. I 
quoted Baptist Noel’s sermon in illustration of what I meant. 

I asked him to what extent the element of scepticism, with regard fo re- 



RICHMOND THE ARTIST. 


181 

ligious truth, had pervaded the mind of England ? adding that I had inferred 
its existence there from such novels as those of Kingsley. He thought that 
there was much of this element, particularly in the working classes; that 
they were coming to regard the clergy with suspicion, and to be less under 
their influence than in former times ; and said it was a matter of much 
solicitude to know how to reach them. 

I told him that I had heard an American clergyman, who had travelled 
in England, say, that dissenters were treated much as free negroes were in 
America, and added that my experience must have been very exceptional, or 
the remark much overstated, as I had met dissenting clergymen in all circles 
of society. He admitted that tliei'e might be a good deal of bigotry in this 
respect, but added that the infrequency of association was more the result 
of those circumstances which would naturally draw the two parties to them¬ 
selves, than to superciliousness on the side of the establishment, adding 
that where a court and aristocracy were in the established church, there 
would necessarily be a pressure of fashion in its favour, which might at 
times bring uncomfortable results. 

The children were sitting by studying their evening lessons, and I begged 
Mrs. Gurney to allow me to look over their geographies and atlases; and 
on her inquiring why, I told her that well-informed people in England 
sometimes made such unaccountable mistakes about the geography of our 
country as were quite surprising to me, and that I did not understand how 
it was that our children should know so much more about England than 
they about us. I found the children, however, in possession of a very ex¬ 
cellent and authentic map of our country. I must say also that the most 
highly educated people I have met in England have never betrayed any 
want of information on this subject. 

The next morning we had at breakfast two clergymen, members of the 
established church. They appeared to be most excellent, devout, practical 
men, anxious to do good, and thoughtfully seeking for suggestions from any 
quarter which might assist them in their labours. They renewed many of 
the inquiries which Mr. Gurney had made the evening before. 

After breakfast I went with Mr. Gurney and Mr. S. to Richmond’ 
studio to sit for a likeness, which is to be presented to Mr. S. by several 
friends. Richmond’s name is one which in this London sphere has only to 
be announced to explain itself; not to know him argues yourself unknown. 
He is one of the most successful artists in a certain line of portrait painting 
that the present day affords. He devotes himself principally to crayon and 
water-colour sketches. His crayon heads are generally the size of life; his 
water-colours of a small size. He often takes full-lengths in this way, 
which render not merely the features, but the figure, air, manner, and wha 
is characteristic about the dress. These latter sketches are finished up very 
highly, with the minuteness of a miniature. His forte consists in seizing 
and fixing those fleeting traits of countenance, air, and movement, which 
go so far towards making up our idea of a person’s appearance. Many of 
the engravings of distinguished persons, with which we are familiar, have 
come from his designs, such as Wilberforce, Sir Fowell Buxton, Elizabeth 
Fry, and others. I found his studio quite a gallery of notabilities, almost 
all the distingues of the day having sat to him; so I certainly had the 
satisfaction of feeling myself in good company. Mr. Richmond looks quite 
youthful, (but I never can judge of any one’s age here,) is most agreeable in 


182 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

fionversation, full of anecdote in regard to all tlie moving life of London. I 
presume his power of entertaining conversation is one secret of liis success¬ 
ful likenesses. Some portrait painters keep calling on you for expression 
all the while, and say nothing in the world to awaken it. 

From Richmond’s, Mr. S., C., and I drove out to call upon Kossuth. 
We found him in an obscure lodging on the outskirts of London. I would 
that some of the editors in America, who have thrown out insinuations 
about his living in luxury, could have seen the utter bareness and plainness 
of the reception room, which had nothing-in it beyond the simplest neces¬ 
saries. Here dwells the man whose greatest fault is an undying love of his 
country. We all know that if Kossuth would have taken wealth and a 
secure retreat, with a life of ease for himself, America would gladly have 
laid all these at his feefc. But because he could not acquiesce in the un¬ 
merited dishonour of his country, he lives a life of obscurity, poverty, and 
labour. All this was written in his pale, worn face, and sad, thoughtful 
blue eye. But to me the unselfish patriot is more venerable for his poverty 
and his misfortunes. 

Have we, among the thousands who speak loud of patriotism in America, 
many men, who, were she enfeebled, despised, and trampled, would forego 
self, and suffer as long, as patiently for her ? It is even easier to die for a 
good cause, in some hour of high enthusiasm, when all that is noblest in 
us can be roused to one great venture, than to lire for it amid wearing years 
of discouragement and hope delayed. 

There are those even here in England who delight to get up slanders 
against Kossuth, and not long ago some most unfounded charges were 
thrown out against him in some public prints. By way of counterpoise an 
enthusiastic public meeting was held, in which he was presented with 
a splendid set of Shakspeare. 

He entered into conversation with us with cheerfulness, speaking English 
well, though with the idioms of foreign languages. He seemed quite 
amused at the sensation which had been excited by Mr. S.’s cotton speech in 
Exeter Hall. C. asked him if he had stili hopes for his cause. He 
answered, ‘ ‘ I hope still, because I work still; my hope is in Hod and in 
man.” 

I inquired for Madame Kossuth, and he answered, “ I have not yet seen 
her to-day,” adding, “she has her family affairs, you know, madam; we 
are poor exiles hereand, fearing to cause embarrassment, I did not press 
an interview. 

When we parted he took my hand kindly, and said, ‘ ‘ God bless vou, my 
child.” 

I would not lose my faith in such men for anything the world could 
give me. There are some people who involve in themselves so many of the 
elements which go to make up our confidence in human nature generally, 
that to lose confidence in them seems to undermine our faith in human 
virtue. As Shakspeare says, their defection would be like ‘ ‘ another fall 
of man.” 

We went back to Mr. Gurney’s to lunch, and then, as the afternoon was 
fine, Mr. and Mrs. Gurney drove with us in their carriage to Pembroke Lodge, 
fihe country seat of Lord John Russell. It was an uncommonly beautiful 
After noon, and the view from Richmond Hill was as perfect a specimen of 
an English landscape, seen under the most benignant auspices, as we could 



PEMBROKE LODGE. 


183 


hope to enjoy. Orchards, gardens, villas, charming meadows enamelled 
with flowers, the silver windings of the Thames, the luxuriant outlines of 
the foliage, varied here and there by the graceful perpendicular of the pop¬ 
lars, all formed one of the richest of landscapes. The brow of the hill is 
beautifully laid out with tufts of trees, winding paths, divex'sified here and 
there with arbours and rustic seats. 

Richmond Park is adorned with clumps of ancient trees, among which 
troops of deer were strolling. Pembroke Lodge is a plain, unostentatious 
building, rising in the midst of charming grounds. We were received in 
the drawing-room by the young ladies, and were sorry to learn that Lady 
Bussell was so unwell as to be unable to give us her company at dinner. 
Two charming little boys came in, and a few moments after, their father, 
Lord John. I had been much pleased with finding on the centre table a 
beautiful edition of that revered friend of my childhood, Dr. Watts’s 
Divine Songs, finely illustrated. I remarked to Lord John that it was the 
face of an old friend. He said it was presented to his little boys by their 
godfather, Sir George Grey; and when, taking one of the little boys on his 
knee, he asked him if he could repeat me one of his hymns, the whole 
thing seemed so New England-like that I began to feel myself quite at 
home. I hope I shall some day see in America an edition of Dr. Watts, in 
which the illustrations do as much justice to the author’s sentiments as in 
this, for in all our modern religious works for children there is nothing that 
excels these divine songs. 

There were only a few guests; among them Sir George Grey and lady ; 
he is nephew to Earl Grey, of refonn memory, and she is the eldest 
daughter of the pious and learned Bishop Ryder, of Lichfield. Sir George 
is a mau of great piety and worth, a liberal, and much interested in all 
benevolent movements. There was also the Earl of Albemarle, who is a 
colonel in the army, and has served many years under Wellington, a par¬ 
ticularly cheerful, entertaining, conversable man, full of anecdote. He told 
several very characteristic and comical stories about the Duke of Wellington. 

At dinner, among other things, the conversation turned upon hunting. 
It always seemed to me a curious thing, that in the height of English civili¬ 
zation this vestige of the savage state should still remain. I told Lord 
Albemarle that I thought the idea of a whole concourse of strong men turn¬ 
ing out to hunt a poor fox or hare, creatures so feeble and insignificant, and 
who could do nothing to defend themselves, was hardly consistent with 
manliness; that if they had some of our American buffaloes, or a Bengal 
tiger, the affair would be something more dignified and generous. There¬ 
upon they only laughed, and told stories about fox-hunters. It seems that 
killing a fox, except in the way of hunting, is deemed among hunters an 
unpardonable offence, and a man who has the misfortune to do it would be 
almost as unwilling to let it be known as if he had killed a man. 

They also told about deerstalking in the highlands, in which exercise I 
inferred Lord John had been a proficient. The conversation reminded me 
of the hunting stories I had beard in the log cabins in Indiana, and I 
amused myself with thinking how some of the narrators would appear 
among my high-bred friends. There is such a quaint vivacity and droll¬ 
ery about that half-savage western life, as always gives it a chaim in my 
recollection. I thought of the jolly old.hunter who always concluded the 
operations of the day by discharging his rifle at his candle after he had 


184 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


snugly ensconced himself in Led; and of the celebrated scene in which 
Henry Clay won an old hunter’s vote in an election, by his aptness in turn¬ 
ing into a political simile some points in the management of a rifle. 

Now there is, to my mind, something infinitely more sublime about 
hunting in real earnest amid the solemn shadows of our interminable forests, 
than in making-believe hunt in parks. 

It is undoubtedly the fact, that these out-of-door sports of England have 
a great deal to do with the firm health which men here enjoy. Speaking 
of this subject, I could not help expressing my surprise to Lord John at 
the apparently perfect health enjoyed by members of Parliament, notwith¬ 
standing their protracted night labours. He thinks that the session of 
Parliament this year will extend nearly to August. Speaking of break¬ 
fasts, he said they often had delightful breakfasts about three o’clock in 
the day; this is a total reverse of all our ideas in regard to time. 

After dinner Lord and Lady Ribblesdale came in, connexions of Lord 
John by a former marriage. I sat by Lord John on the sofa, and listened 
with great interest to a conversation between him and Lady Grey, on the 
working of the educational system in England ; a subject which has par¬ 
ticularly engaged the attention of the English government since the reign of 
the present Queen. I found a difficulty in understanding many of the 
terms they used, though I learned much that interested me. 

After awhile I went to Lady Russell’s apartment, and had an hour ot 
very pleasant conversation with her. It greatly enlarges our confidence in 
human nature to find such identity of feeling and opinion among the really 
good of different countries, and of all different circles in those countries. 
I have never been more impressed with this idea than during my sojourn 
here in England. Different as the institutions of England and America 
are, they do not prevent the formation of a very general basis of agreement 
in so far as radical ideas of practical morality and religion are concerned; 
and I am increasingly certain that there is a foundation for a lasting unity 
between the two countries which shall increase constantly, as the increasing 
facilities of communication lessen the distance between us. 

Lady Russell inquired with a good deal of interest after Prescott, our 
historian, and expressed the pleasure which she and Lord John had derived 
from his writings. 

We left early, after a most agreeable evening. The next day at eleven 
o’clock we went to an engagement at Lambeth Palace, where we had been 
invited by a kind note from its venerable master, the Archbishop of 
Canterbury. Lambeth is a stately pile of quaint, antique buildings, 
rising most magnificently on the banks of the Thames. It is surrounded 
by beautiful grounds, laid out with choice gardening. Through an ancient 
hall, lighted by stained-glass windows, we were ushered into the draw- 
ing room, where the guests were assembling. There was quite a number 
of people there, among others the lady and eldest son of the Bishop of 
London, the Earl and Countess Waldegrave, and the family friends of 
the archbishop. 

The good archbishop was kind and benign, as usual, and gave me his 
arm while w T e explored the curiosities of the palace. Now, my dear, if 
you will please to recollect that the guide-book says, “this palace con¬ 
tains all the gradations of architecture from early English to late perpendi- 



LAMBETH PALACE. 


185 


cular,” you will certainly not expect me to describe it in one letter. It 
has been the residence of the Archbishops of Canterbury from time im¬ 
memorial, both in the days before the reformation and since. 

The chapel was built between the years 1200 and 1300, and there used 
to be painted windows in it, as Archbishop Laud says, which contained the 
whole history of the world, from the creation to the day of judgment. 
Unfortunately these comprehensive windows were destroyed in the civil 
wars. 

The part called the Lollards’ Tower is celebrated as having been the re¬ 
puted prison of the Lollards. These Lollards, perhaps you will remember, 
were the followers of John Wickliffe, called Lollards, as Christ was called 
a “ Nazarene,” simply because the word was a term of reproach. Wick¬ 
liffe himself was summoned here to Lambeth to give an account of his 
teachings, and in 1382, William Courtnay, Archbishop of Canterbury, 
called a council, which condemned his doctrines. The tradition is, that 
at various times these Lollards were imprisoned here. 

In order to get to the tower we had to go through a great many apart¬ 
ments, passages, and corridors, and terminate all by climbing a winding 
staircase, steeper and narrower than was at all desirable for any but 
wicked heretics, who ought to be made as uncomfortable as possible. How¬ 
ever, by reasonable perseverance, the archbishop, the bishop’s lady, and all 
the noble company present found themselves safely at the top. Our host 
remarked, I think, that it was the second time he had ever been there. 

The room is thirteen feet by twelve, and about eight feet high, wain- 
-scotted with oak, which is scrawled over with names and inscriptions. 
There are eight large iron rings in the wall, to which the prisoners were 
chained; for aught we know, Wickliffe himself may have been one. As 
our kind host moved about among us with his placid face, we could not but 
think that times had altered since the days when archbishops used to im¬ 
prison heretics, and preside over grim, inquisitorial tribunals. We all 
agreed, however, that, considering the very beautiful prospect this tower 
commands up and down the Thames, the poor Lollards in some respects 
might have been worse lodged. 

We passed through the guard room, library, and along a corridor where 
hung a row of pictures of all the archbishops from the very earliest times; 
and then the archbishop took me into his study, which is a most charming 
room, containing his own private library: after that we all sat down to 
lunch in a large dining hall. I was seated between the archbishop and a 
venerable admiral in the navy. Among other things, the latter asked me 
if there were not many railroad and steamboat accidents in America. 0 my 
countrymen, what trouble do you make us in foreign lands by your terrible 
carelessness ! I was obliged, in candour, to say that I thought there was a 
Shocking number of accidents of that sort, and suggested the best excuse I 
could think of—our youth and inexperience; but I certainly thought my 
venerable friend had touched a very indefensible point. 

Among other topics discussed in the drawing room, I heard some more 
on dits respecting spiritual rappings. Everybody seems to be wondering 
ft'hat they are, and what they are going to amount to. 

We took leave of our kind host and liis family, gratefully impressed with 
the simplicity and sincere cordiality of our reception. There are many dif- 


186 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

ferent names for goodness in this world; hut, after all, true brotherly kind¬ 
ness and charity is much the same thing, whether it show itself by a 
Quaker’s fireside or in an archbishop’s palace. 

Leaving the archbishop’s I went to Richmond’s again, where I was most 
agreeably entertained for an hour or two. We have an engagement for 
Playford Hall to-morrow, and we breakfast with Joseph Sturge: it being 
now the time of the yearly meeting of the Friends, he and his family are in 
town. 


LETTER XXIV. 

- PLAYFORD HALL.— CLARKSON', 

My DEAR S.— 

The next morning C. and I took the cars to go into the country, to Play- 
ford Hall. “And what’s Playford Hall?” you say. “ And why did you 
go to see it ?” As to what it is, here is a reasonably good picture before 
you. As to why, it was for many years the residence of Thomas Clarkson, 
and is now the residence of his venerable widow and her family. ' 

Playford Hall is considered, I think, the oldest of the fortified houses in 
England, and is, I am told, the only one that has water in the moat. The 
water which girdles the wall is the moat: it surrounds the place entiiely, 
leaving no access except across the bridge. 

After crossing this bridge, you come into a green courtyard filled with 
choice plants and flowering shrubs, and carpeted with that thick, soft, 
velvet-like grass which is to be found nowhere else in so perfect a state as 
in England. 

The water is fed by a perpetual spring, whose current is so sluggish as 
scarcely to be perceptible, but which yet has the vitality of a running 
stream. 

It has a dark and glassy stillness of surface, only broken by the forms of 
the water plants, whose leaves float thickly over it. 

The walls of the moat are green with ancient moss, and from the crevices 
springs an abundant flowering vine, whose delicate leaves and bright yellow 
flowers in some places entirely mantle the stones with their graceful 
drapery. 

The picture I have given you represents only one side of the moat. The 
other side is grown up with dark and thick shrubbery and ancient trees, 
rising and embowering the entire place, adding to the retired and singular 
effect of the whole. The place is a specimen of a sort of thing which does 
not exist in America. It is one of those significant landmarks which unite 
the present with the past, for which we must return to the country of our 
origin. 

Playford Hall is peculiarly English, and Thomas Clarkson, for whose 
sake I visited it, was as peculiarly an Englishman—a specimen of the very 
best kind of English mind and character, as this is of characteristic English 
architecture. 

We Anglo-Saxons have won a hard name in the world. There are un¬ 
doubtedly bad things which are true about us. 

Taking our developments as a race, both in England and America, we 




CLARKSON, 


187 

may be justly called tbe Romans of tbe nineteenth century. We have been 
the race which has conquered, subdued, and broken in pieces other weaker 
races, with little regard either to justice or mercy. With regard to benefits 
by us imparted to conquered nations, I think a better story, on the whole, 
can be made out for the Romans than for us. Witness the treatment of the 
Chinese, of the tribes of India, and of our own American Indians. 

But still there is in Anglo-Saxon blood a vigorous sense of justice, as 
appears in our habeas corpus, our jury trials, and other features of state 
organization; and, when this is tempered, in individuals, with the elements 
ot gentleness and compassion, and enforced by that energy and indomitable 
perseverance which are characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon mind, they form 
a style of philanthropy peculiarly efficient. In short, the Anglo-Saxon is 
efficient, in whatever he sets himself about, whether in crushing the weak 
or lifting them up. 

Thomas Clarkson was born in a day when good, pious people imported 
cargoes of slaves from Africa, as one of the regular Christianized modes of 
gaining a subsistence and providing for themselves and their households. 
It was a thing that everybody was doing, and everybody thought they had 
a right to do. It was supposed that all the sugar, molasses, and rum in 
the world were dependent on stealing men, women, and children, and could 
be got in no other way; and as to consume sugar, molasses, and rum, were 
evidently the chief ends of human existence, it followed that men, women, 
and children must be stolen to the end of time. 

Some good people, when they now and then heard an appalling story of 
the cruelties practised in the slave ship, declared that it was really too bad, 
sympathetically remarked, “ What a sorrowful world we live in !” stirred 
their sugar into their tea, and went on as before, because, what was there to 
do?—“ Hadn’t everybody always done it? and if they didn’t do it, wouldn’t 
somebody else?” 

It is true that for many years individuals at different times had remon¬ 
strated, written treatises, poems, stories, and movements had been made by 
some religious bodies, particularly the Quakers, but the opposition had 
amounted to nothing practically efficient. 

The attention of Clarkson was first turned to the subject by having it 
given out as the theme for a prize composition in his college class, he being 
at that time a sprightly young man, about twenty-four years of age. He 
entered into the investigation with no other purpose than to see what he 
could make of it as a college theme. 

He says of himself, “I had expected pleasure from the invention of 
arguments, from the arrangement of them, from the putting of them 
together, and from the thought, in the interim, that I was engaged in an 
innocent contest for literary honour; but all my pleasures were damped by 
the facts which were now continually before me. 

“It was but one gloomy subject from morning till night; in the daytime 
I was uneasy, in the night I had little rest; I sometimes never closed my 
eyelids for grief.” 

It became not now so much a trial for academical reputation as to write 
a work which should be useful to Africa. It is not surprising that a work 
written under the force of such feelings should have gained the prize, as it 
did. Clarkson was summoned from London to Cambridge, to deliver his 
prize essay publicly. He says of himself, on returning to London, ‘ ‘ The 


188 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


subject of it almost wholly engrossed my thoughts. I became at times 
very seriously affected while on the road. I stopped my horse occasionally, 
dismounted, and walked. 

‘ ‘ I frequently tried to persuade myself that the contents of my essay 
could not be true; but the more I reflected on the authorities on which they 
were founded, the more I gave them credit. Coming in sight of Wade’s 
Mill, in Hertfordshire, I sat down disconsolate on the turf by the roadside, 
and held my horse. Here a thought came into my mind, that if the con¬ 
tents of the essay were true, it was time that somebody should see these 
calamities to an end.” 

These reflections, as it appears, were put off for a while, but returned 
again. 

This young and noble heart was of a kind that could not comfort itself 
so easily for a brother’s sorrow as many do. 

He says of himself, “ In the course of the autumn of the same year, I 
walked frequently into the woods, that I might think of the subject in so¬ 
litude, and find relief to my mind thei'e; but there the question still 
recurred, ‘Are these things true?’ Still, the answer followed as instan¬ 
taneously, ‘ They are;’ still the result accompanied it—surely some person 
should interfere. I began to envy those who had seats in Parliament, 
riches, and widely extended connexions, which would enable them to take 
up this cause. 

“ Finding scarcely any one, at the time, who thought of it, I was turned 
frequently to myself; but here many difficulties arose. It struck me, among 
others, that a young man only twenty-four years of age could not have that 
solid judgment, or that knowledge of men, manners, and things, which were 
requisite to qualify him to undertake a task of such magnitude and import¬ 
ance ; and with whom was I to unite? I believed, also, that it looked so 
much like one of the feigned labours of Hercules, that my understanding 
would be suspected if I proposed it.” 

He, however, resolved to do something for the cause by translating his 
essay from Latin into English, enlarging and presenting it to the public. 
Immediately on the publication of this essay he discovered, to his astonish¬ 
ment and delight, that he was not the only one who had been interested in 
this subject. 

Being invited to the house of William Dilhvyn, one of these friends to the 
cause, he says, “ How surprised was I to learn, in the course of our con¬ 
versation, of the labours of Granville Sharp, of the writings of Ramsey, and 
of the controversy in which the latter was engaged! of all which I had 
hitherto known nothing. How surprised was I to learn that William 
Dilhvyn had, two years before, associated himself with five others for the 
purpose of enlightening the public mind on this great subject! 

“ How astonished was I to find that a society had been formed in America 
for the same object! These thoughts almost overpowered me. My mind 
was overwhelmed by the thought that I had been providentially directed to 
this house; the finger of Providence was beginning to be discernible, and 
that the day star of African liberty was rising.” 

After this he associated with many friends of the cause, and at last it 
became evident that, in order to effect anything, he must sacrifice all other 
prospects in life, and devote himself exclusively to this work. 

He says, after mentioning reasons which prevented all his associates from 




CLARKSON, 


1S9 


doing this, “I could look, therefore, to no person hut myself; and the 
question was, whether I was prepared to make the sacrifice. In favour of 
the undertaking, I urged to myself that never was any cause, which had 
been taken up by man, in any country or in any age, so great and 
important; that never was there one in which so much misery was heard 
to cry for redress; that never was there one in which so much good could 
be done; never one in which the duty of Christian charity could be so ex¬ 
tensively exercised ; never one more worthy of the devotion of a whole life 
towards it; and that, if a man thought properly, he ought to rejoice to have 
been called into existence, if he were only permitted to become an instru¬ 
ment in forwarding it in any part of its progress. 

“ Against these sentiments, on the other hand, I had to urge that I had 
been designed for the church; that I had already advanced as far as deacon’s 
orders in it; that my prospects there on account of my connexions were 
then brilliant; that, by appearing to desert my profession, my family would 
be dissatisfied, if not unhappy. These thoughts pressed upon me, and 
rendered the conflict difficult. 

“But the sacrifice of my prospects staggered me, I own, the most. 
When the other objections which I have related occurred to me, my enthu¬ 
siasm instantly, like a flash of lightning, consumed them; but this stuck 
to me, and troubled me. I had ambition. I had a thirst after worldly 
interest and honours, and I could not extinguish it at once. I was more 
than two hours in solitude under this painful conflict. At length I yielded, 
not because I saw any reasonable prospect of success in my new under¬ 
taking,—for all cool-headed and cool-hearted men would have pronounced 
against it,—but in obedience, I believe, to a higher Power. And I can say, 
that both on the moment of this resolution and for some time afterwards, 
I had more sublime and happy feelings than at any former period of my 
life.” 

In order to show how this enterprise was looked upon and talked of very 
commonly by the majority of men in those times, we will extract the fol¬ 
lowing passage from Boswell’s Life of Johnson, in which Bozzy thus enters 
his solemn protest: ‘ ‘ The wild and dangerous attempt, which has for some 
time been persisted in, to obtain an act of our legislature to abolish so very 
important and necessary a branch of commercial interest, must have been 
crushed at once, had not the insignificance of the zealots, who vainly took 
the lead in it, made the vast body of planters, merchants, and others, whose 
immense properties are involved in that trade, reasonably enough suppose 
that there could be no danger. The encouragement which the attempt has 
received excites my wonder and indignation; and though some men of 
superior abilities have supported it, whether from a love of temporary 
popularity when prosperous, or a love of general mischief when desperate, 
my opinion is unshaken. 

‘ ‘ To abolish a status which in all ages God has sanctioned, and man has 
continued, would not only be robbery to an innumerable class of our fellow- 
subjects, but it would be extreme cruelty to the African savages, a portion 
of whom it saves from massacre or intolerable bondage in their own country, 
and introduces into a much happier state of life; especially now, when 
their passage to the West Indies, and their treatment there, is humanely 
regulated. To abolish this trade would be to 

‘-shut the gates of mercy on mankind.’ ” 



190 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

One of the first steps of Clarkson and his associates was the formation 
a committee of twelve persons, for the collection and dissemination of infor¬ 
mation on the subject. 

The contest now began in earnest, a contest as sublime as any the world 
ever saw. 

The abolition controversy more fully aroused the virtue, the talent, and 
the religion of the great English nation, than any other event or crisis 
which ever occurred. 

Wilberforce was the leader of the question in Parliament. The other 
members of the antislavery committee performed those labours which were 
necessary out of it. 

This labour consisted principally in the collection of evidence with regard 
to the traffic, and the presentation of it before the public mind. In this 
labour Clarkson was particularly engaged. The subject was hemmed in 
with the same difficulties that now beset the antislavery cause in America. 
Those who knew most about it were precisely those whose interest it was 
to prevent inquiry. An immense moneyed interest was arrayed against 
investigation, and was determined to suppress the agitation of the subject. 
Owing to this powerful pressure, many, who were in possession of facts 
which would bear upon this subject, refused to communicate them ; and 
often, after a long and wearisome journey in search of an individual who 
could throw light upon the subject, Clarkson had the mortification to find 
his lips sealed by interest or timidity. As usual, the cause of oppression 
was defended by the most impudent lying; the slave-trade was asserted to 
be the latest revised edition of philanthropy. It was said that the poor 
African, the slave of miserable oppression in his own country, was wafted, 
by it to an asylum in a Christian land; that the middle passage was to the 
poor negro a perfect Elysium, infinitely happier than anything he had ever 
known in his own country. All this was said while manacles, and hand¬ 
cuffs, and thumbscrews, and instruments to force open the mouth, were a 
regular part of the stock for a slave ship, and were hanging in the shop 
windows of Liverpool for sale. 

For Clarkson’s attention was first called to these things by observing 
them in the shop window, and on inquiring the use of one of them, the 
man informed him that many times negroes were sulky, and tried to 
starve themselves to death, and this instrument was used to force open 
their jaws. 

Of Clarkson’s labour in this investigation some idea may be gathered 
from his own words, when, oeating that for a season he was compelled to 
retire from the cause, he thus speaks:— 

“ As far as I myself was concerned, all exertion was then over. The 
nervous system was almost shattered to pieces. Both my memory and my 
hearing failed me. Sudden dizzinesses seized my head. A confused sing¬ 
ing in the ear followed me wherever I went. On going to bed the very 
stairs seemed to dance up and down under me, so that, misplacing my 
foot, I sometimes fell. Talking, too, if it continued but half an hour, 
exhausted me so that profuse perspiration followed, and the same 
effect was produced even by an active exertion of the mind for the like 
time. 

“ These disorders had been brought on by degrees, in consequence of the 
severe labours necessarily attached to the promotion of the cause. For 


CLARKSON. 


191 


seven years I had a coi’respondenee to maintain with fonr hundred persons, 
with my own hand; I had some book or other annually to write in behalf 
of the cause. In this time I had travelled more than thirty-five thousand 
miles in search of evidence, and a great part of these journeys in the night. 
All tliis time my mind had been on the stretch. It had been bent, too, to 
this one subject, for I had not even leisure to attend to my own concerns. 
The various instances of barbarity which had come successively to my 
knowledge, within this period, had vexed, harassed, and afflicted it. The 
w r ound which these had produced was rendered still deeper by those cruel 
disappointments before related, which arose from the reiterated refusals of 
persons to give their testimony, after I had travelled hundreds of miles in 
quest of them. But the severest stroke was that inflicted by the persecu¬ 
tion, begun and pursued by persons interested in the continuance of the 
trade, of such witnesses as had been examined against them, and whom, 
on account of their dependent situation in life, it was most easy to oppress. 
As I had been the means of bringing these forward on these occasions, they 
naturally came to me, when thus persecuted, as the author of their miseries 
and their ruin. From their supplications and wants it would have been 
ungenerous and ungrateful to have fled. These different circumstances, by 
acting together, had at length brought me into the situation just men¬ 
tioned; and I was, therefore, obliged, though very reluctantly, to be 
borne out of the field where I had placed the great honour and glory of my 
life.” 

I may as well add here, that a Mr. Whitbread, to whom Clarkson men¬ 
tioned this latter cause of distress, generously offered to repair the pecu¬ 
niary losses of all who had suffered in this cause. One anecdote will be a 
specimen of the energy with which Clarkson pursued evidence. It had 
been very strenuously asserted and maintained that the subjects of the slave- 
trade were only such unfortunates as had become prisoners of war, and 
w r ho, if not carried out of the country in this mannei, would be exposed to 
death or some more dreadful doom in their own country. This was one of 
those stories which nobody believed, and yet was particularly useful in the 
hands of the opposition, because it was difficult legally to disprove it. It 
was perfectly well known that in very many cases slave traders made direct 
incursions into the country, kidnapped and carried off the inhabitants of 
whole villages ; but the question was, how to establish- it. A gentleman 
whom Clarkson accidentally met on one of his journeys informed him that 
he had been in company, about a year before, with a sailor, a very respect¬ 
able-looking young man, who had actually been engaged in one of these 
expeditions; he had spent half an hour with him at an inn; he described 
his person, but knew nothing of his name or the place of his abode; all he 
knew was, that he belonged to a ship of war in ordinary, but knew nothing 
of the port. Clarkson determined that this man should be produced as a 
witness, and knew no better way than to go personally to all the ships in 
ordinary, until the individual was found. He actually visited every sea¬ 
port town, and boarded every ship, till in the very last port, and on the 
very last ship, which remained, the individual was found, and found to be 
possessed of just the facts and information which were necessary. By the 
labours of Clarkson anti his contemporaries, an incredible excitement was 
produced throughout all England. The pictures and models of slave ships, 
accounts of the cruelties practised in the trade, were circulated with an 


192 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


industry ■which left not a man, woman, or child in England uninstructed. 
In disseminating information, and in awakening feeling and conscience, the 
women of England were particularly earnest, and laboured with that whole¬ 
hearted devotion which characterizes the sex. 

It seems that after the committee had published the facts, and sent them 
to every town in England, Clarkson followed them up by journeying to all 
the places, to see that they were read and attended to. Of the state of 
feeling at this time Clarkson gives the following account:— 

“And first I may observe, that there was no town through which I 
passed in which there was not some one individual who had left off the use 
of sugar. In the smaller towns there were from ten to fifty, by estimation, 
and in the larger from two to five hundred, who made this sacrifice to 
virtue. These were of all ranks and parties. Bich and poor, churchmen 
and dissenters, had adopted the measure. Even grocers had left off trading 
in the article in some places. In gentlemen’s families, where the master 
had set the example, the servants had often voluntarily followed it; and 
even children, who were capable of understanding the history of the 
sufferings of the Africans, excluded, with the most virtuous resolution, the 
sweets, to which they had been accustomed, from their lips. By the best 
computation I was able to make, from notes taken down in my journey, no 
fewer than three hundred thousand persons had abandoned the use ot 
sugar.” It was the reality, depth, and earnestness of the public feeling, 
thus aroused, which pressed with resistless force upon the government; for 
the government of England yields to popular demands quite as readily as 
that of America. 

After years of protracted struggle, the victory was at last won. The 
slave-trade was finally abolished through all the British empire; and not 
only so, but the English nation committed, with the whole force of its 
national influence, to seek the abolition of the slave-trade in all the nations 
of the earth. But the wave of feeling did not rest there; the investigations 
had brought before the English conscience the horrors and abominations 
of slavery itself, and the agitation never ceased till slavery was finally 
abolished through all the British provinces. At this time the religious 
mind and conscience of England gained, through this very struggle, a power 
which it never has lost. The principle adopted by them was the same so 
sublimely adopted by the church in America in reference to the foreign 
missionary cause: “The field is the world.” They saw and felt that, as 
the example and practice of England had been powerful in giving sanction 
to this evil, and particularly in introducing it into America, there was the 
greatest reason why she should never intermit her efforts till the wrong was 
lighted throughout the earth. 

Clarkson, to his last day, never ceased to be interested in the subject, 
and took the warmest interest in all movements for the abolition of slavery 
in America. 

At the Ipswich depot we were met by a venerable lady, the daughter of 
Clarkson’s associate, William Dillwyn. She seemed overjoyed to meet us, 
and took us at once into her carriage, and entertained us all our way to the 
hall by anecdotes and incidents of Clarkson and his times. She read me a 
manuscript letter from him, written at a very advanced age, in which he 
speaks with the utmost ardour and enthusiasm, of the first antislavery 
movements of Cassius M. Clay in Kentucky. She described him to me as 


CLARKSON. 193 

a cheerful, companionable being, frank and simple-hearted, and with a good 
deal of quiet humour. 

It is remarkable of him that, with such intense feeling for human suf¬ 
fering as lie had, and worn down and exhausted as he was by the dreadful 
miseries and sorrows with which he w r as constantly obliged to be familiar, 
he never yielded to a spirit of bitterness or denunciation. 

The narrative which he gives is as calm and unimpassioned, and as free 
from any trait of this kind, as the narratives of the evangelists. Thus 
riding and talking, we at last arrived at the hall. 

The old stone house, the moat, the draw-bridge, all spoke of days of 
violence long gone by, when no man was safe except within fortified walls, 
and every man’s house literally had to be his castle. 

To me it was interesting as the dwelling of a conqueror, as one who had 
not wrestled with flesh and blood merely, but with principalities and powers, 
and the rulers of the darkness of this world, and who had overcome, as his 
great Master did before him, by faith, and prayer, and labour. 

We were received with much cordiality by the widow of Clarkson, now 
in her eighty-fourth year. She has been a woman of great energy and 
vigour, and an efficient co-labourer in his plans of benevolence. 

She is now quite feeble. I was placed under the care of a respectable 
female servant, who forthwith installed me in a large chamber overlooking 
the court-yard, which had been Clarkson’s own room; the room where, for 
years, many of his most important labours had been conducted, "and from 
whence his soul had ascended to the reward of the just. 

The servant who attended me seemed to be quite a superior woman, like 
many of the servants in respectable English families. She had grown up 
in the family, and was identified with it; its ruling aims and purposes had 
become hers. She had been the personal attendant of Clarkson, and his 
nurse during his last sickness; she had evidently understood, and been 
interested in his plans; and the veneration with which she therefore spoke 
of him had the sanction of intelligent appreciation. 

A daughter of Clarkson, who was married to a neighbouring clergyman, 
witli her husband, was also present on this day. 

After dinner we rode out to see the old church, in whose enclosure the 
remains of Clarkson repose. It was just such a still, quiet, mossy old 
church as you have read of in story books, with the graveyard spread all 
around it, like a thoughtful mother, who watches the resting of her children. 

The grass in the yard was long and green, and the daisy, which, in other 
places, lies like a little button on the ground, here had a richer fringe of 
crimson, and a stalk about six inches high. It is, I well know, the vital 
ufluence from the slumbering dust beneath which giv es the richness to this 
grass and these flowers; but let not that be a painful thought; let it rather 
cheer us, that beauty should spring from ashes, and life smile brighter from 
the near presence of death. The grave of Clarkson is near the church, 
enclosed by a railing, and marked by a simple white marble slab ; it is 
carefully tended, and planted with flowers. In the church was an old book 
of records, and among other curious inscriptions was one recording how a 
pious committee of old Noll’s army had been there, knocking off saints 
noses, and otherwise purging the church from the relics of idolatry. 

o 





194 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


Near by the church was the parsonage, the home of ray friends, a neat, 
pleasant, sequestered dwelling, of about the style of a New England country 
parsonage. 

The effect of the whole together was inexpressibly beautiful to me. For 
a wonder, it was a pleasant day, and this is a thing always to be thankfully 
acknowledged in England. The calm stillness of the afternoon, the se¬ 
clusion of the whole place, the silence only broken by the cawing of the 
rooks, the ancient church, the mossy graves with their flowers and green 
grass, the sunshine and the tree shadows, all seemed to mingle together in 
a kind of hazy dream of peacefulness and rest. How natural it is to say 
of some place sheltered, simple, cool, and retired, here one might find peace, 
as if peace came from without, and not from within. In the shadiest and 
stillest places may be the most turbulent hearts; and there are hearts which, 
through the busiest scenes, carry with them unchanging peace. As we 
were walking back, we passed many cottages of the poor. 

I noticed, with particular pleasure, the invariable flower garden attached 
to each. Some pansies in one of them attracted my attention by their 
peculiar beauty, so very large and richly coloured. On being introduced 
to the owner of them, she, with cheerful alacrity, offered me some of the 
finest. I do not doubt of there being suffering and misery in the agricul¬ 
tural population of England, but still there are multitudes of cottages 
which are really very pleasant objects, as were all these. The cottagers 
had that bright, rosy look of health which we seldom see in America, and 
appeared to be both polite and self-respecting. 

In the evening we had quite a gathering of friends from the neighbour¬ 
hood—intelligent, sensible, earnest people, who had grown up in the love 
of the antislavery cause as into religion. The subject of conversation was, 
“The duty of English people to free themselves from any participation in 
American slavery, by taking means to encourage the production of free 
cotton in the British provinces.” 

It is no more impossible or improbable that something effective may be 
done in this way than that the slave trade should have been abolished. 
Every great movement seems an impossibility at first. There is no end to 
the number of things declared and proved impossible which have been done 
already, so that this may become something yet. 

Mrs. Clarkson had retired from the room early; after a while she sent 
for me to her sitting room. The faithful attendant of whom I spoke was 
with her. She wished to show me some relics of her husband, his watch 
and seals, some of his papers and manuscripts; among these was the 
identical prize essay with which he began his career, and a commentary on 
the Gospels, which he had written with great care, for the use of his grand¬ 
son. His seal attracted my attention—it was that kneeling figure of the 
negro, with clasped hands, which was at first adopted as the badge of the 
cause, when every means was being made use of to arouse the public mind 
and keep the subject before the public. Mr. Wedgwood, the celebrated 
porcelain manufacturer, designed a cameo, with this representation, which 
was much worn as an ornament by ladies. It was engraved on the seal of 
the Antislavery Society, and was used by its members in sealing all their 
letters. This of Clarkson’s was handsomely engraved on a large, old- 
fashioned cornelian; and surely, if we look with emotion on the sword of a 
departed hero,—which, at best, we can consider only as a necessary 






JOSEPH STUKGE. 195 

evil,—we may look with unmingled pleasure on this memorial of a blood¬ 
less victory. 

When I retired to my room for the night I could not hut feel that the 
place was hallowed: unceasing prayer had there been offered for the 
enslaved and wronged race of Africa by that noble and brotherly heart. I 
could not but feel that those prayers had had a wider reach than the mere 
extinction of slavery in one land or country, and that their benign influenco 
would not cease while a slave was left upon the face of the earth. 


LETTER XXV. 

JOSEPH STURGE.—THE ct TIMES” UPON DRESSMAKING.—DUKE OE ARGTLE. 

SIR DAVID DEEWSTER.—LORD MAHON.—ME. GLADSTONE. 

Beau C. :— 

We returned to London, and found Mr. S. and Joseph Sturge waiting for 
us at the depot. We dined with Mr. Sturge. It seems that Mr. S.’s 
speech upon the subject of cotton has created some considerable disturb¬ 
ance, different papers declaring themselves for or against it with a good 
deal of vivacity. 

After dinner Mr. Sturge desired me very much to go into the meeting of 
the women ; for it seems that, at the time of the yearly meeting among the 
Friends, the men and women both have their separate meetings for attend¬ 
ing to business. The aspect of the meeting was very interesting—so many 
placid, amiable faces, shaded by plain Quaker bonnets; so many neat 
white handkerchiefs, folded across peaceful bosoms. Either a large num- 
j ber of very pretty women wear the Quaker dress, or it is quite becoming 
in its effect. 

There ai'e some things in the mode of speaking among the Friends, par¬ 
ticularly in their public meetings, which do not strike me agreeably, and 
to which I think it would take me some time to become accustomed; such 
as a kind of intoning somewhat similar to the manner in which the church 
service is performed in cathedrals. It is a curious fact that religious 
exercises, in all ages and countries, have inclined to this form of expression. 
It appears in the cantilation of the synagogue, the service of the cathedral, 
the prayers of the Covenanter and the Puritan. 

There were a table and writing materials in this meeting, and a circle of 
from fifty to a hundred ladies. One of those upon the platform requested 
me to express to them my opinion on free labour. In a few words I told 
them I considered myself upon that subject more a learner than a teacher, 
but that I was deeply interested in what I had learned upon this subject 
since my travelling in England, and particularly interested in the consis¬ 
tency and self-denial practised by their sect. 

I have been quite amused with something which has happened lately. 
It always has seemed to me that distinguished people here in England live 
a remarkably out-door sort of life ; and newspapers tell a vast deal about 
people’s concerns which it is not our custom to put into print in America. 
Such, for instance, as where the Hon. Mr. A. is staying now, and where he 
expects to go next ; what her grace wore at the last ball, and when the 
royal children rode out, and what they had on ; and whom Lord Such-a- 

o 2 








196 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


one had to dinner ; besides a large number of particulars which probably 
never happen. 

Could I have expected dear old England to make me so much one of the 
family as to treat my humble fortunes in this same public manner ? But it 
is even so. This week the Times has informed the United Kingdom that 
Mrs. Stowe is getting a new dress made !—the charming old aristocratic 
Times , which everybody declares is such a wicked paper, and yet which 
they can no more do without than they can their breakfast ! What am I, 
and what is my father’s house, that such distinction should come upon me? 
I assure you, my dear, I feel myself altogether too much flattered. There, 
side by side with speculations on the eastern question, and conjectures with 
regard to the secret and revealed will of the Emperor of Russia, news from 
her Majesty’s most sacred retreat at Osborne, and the last debates in 
Parliament, comes my brown silk dress ! The Times has omitted the colour; 
I had a great mind to send him word about that. But you may tell the 
girls—for probably the news will spread through the American papers— 
that it is the brown Chinese silk which they put into my trunk, unmade, 
when I was too ill to sit up and be fitted. 

Mr. Times wants to know if Mrs. Stowe is aware what sort of a place her 
dress is being made in ; aud there is a letter from a dressmaker’s appren¬ 
tice stating that it is being made up piecemeal, in the most shockingly dis¬ 
tressed dens of London, by poor, miserable white slaves, worse treated than 
the plantation slaves of America. 

Now, Mrs. Stowe did not know anything of this, but simply gave the 
silk into the hands of a friend, and was in due time waited on in her own 
apartment by a very respectable woman, who offered to make the dress ; 
and lo, this is the result! Since the publication of this piece, I have re¬ 
ceived earnest missives, from various parts of the country, begging me to 
interfere, hoping that I was not going to patronise the white slavery of 
England, and that I would employ my talents equally against oppression 
under every form. The person who had been so unfortunate as to receive 
the weight of my public patronage was in a very tragical state; protested 
her innocence of any connexion with dens, of any overworking of hands, 
&c., with as much fervour as if I had been appointed on a committee of 
parliamentary inquiry. Let my case be a warning to all philanthropists 
who may happen to want clothes while they are in London. Some of my 
correspondents seemed to think that I ought to publish a manifesto for 
the benefit of distressed Great Britain, stating how I came to do it, and all 
the circumstances, since they are quite sure I must have meant well, and 
containing gentle cautions as to the disposal of my future patronage in the 
dressmaking line. 

Could these people only know in what sacred simplicity I have been 
living in the State of Maine, where the only dressmaker of our circle was an 
intelligent, refined, well-educated woman, who was considered as the equal 
of us all, and whose spring and fall ministrations to our wardrobe were 
regarded a double pleasure,—a friendly visit as well as a domestic assist¬ 
ance,—I say, could they know all this, they would see how guiltless I was 
in the matter. I verily never thought but that the nice, pleasant person 
who came to measure me for my silk, was going to take it home and 
make it herself ; it never occurred to me that she was the head of an estab¬ 
lishment. 


TTIE “TIMES” AND THE DRESSMAKERS. ^97 

And now, what am I to do ? The Times seems to think that, in order to 
he consistent, I ought to take up the conflict immediately; hut, for my 
part, I think otherwise. What an unreasonable creature ! Does he sup¬ 
pose me so lost to all due sense of humility as to take out of his hands a 
cause which he is pleading so well ? If the plantation slaves had such a 
good friend as the Times, and if every over-worked female cotton picker 
could write as clever letters as this dressmaker’s apprentice, and get them 
published in as influential papers, and excite as general a sensation by them 
as this seems to have done, I think I should feel that there was no need of 
my interfering in a work so much better done. Unfortunately, our female 
cotton pickers do not know how to read and write, and it is against the law 
to teach them ; and this instance shows that the law is a sagacious one, 
since, doubtless, if they could read and write, most embarrassing communi¬ 
cations might be made. 

Nothing shows more plainly, to my mind, than this letter, the difference 
between the working class of England and the slave. The free workman or 
workwoman of England or America, however poor, is self-respecting ; is to 
some extent, clever and intelligent; is determined to resist wrong, and, as 
this incident shows, has abundant means for doing so. 

When we shall see the columns of the Charleston Courier adorned with 
communications from cotton pickers, and slave seamstresses, we shall then 
think the comparison a fair one. In fact, apart from the whimsicality of 
the affair, and the little annoyance one feels at notoriety to which one is not 
accustomed, I consider the incident as in some aspects a gratifying one, as 
showing how awake and active are the sympathies of the British public with 
that much oppressed class of needlewomen. 

Horace Greeley would be delighted could his labours in this line excite a 
similar commotion in New York. 

We dined to-day at the Duke of Argyle’s. At dinner there were the 
members of the family, the Duchess of Sutherland, Lord Carlisle, Lord and 
Lady Blantyre, &c. The conversation flowed along in a very agreeable 
channel. I told them the more I contemplated life in Great Britain, the 
more I was struck with the contrast between the comparative smallness of 
the territory and the vast power, physical, moral, and intellectual, which it 
exerted in the world. 

The Duchess of Sutherland added, that it was beautiful to observe how 
gradually the idea of freedom had developed itself in the history of the 
English nation, growing clearer and more distinct in every successive 
century. 

I might have added that the history of our own American republic is but 
a continuation of the history of this development. The resistance to the 
stamp act was of the same kind as the resistance to the ship money; and 
in our revolutionary war there were as eloquent defences of our principles 
and course heard in the British Parliament as echoed in Faneuil Hall. 

I conversed some with Lady Caroline Campbell, the duke’s sister, with 
regard to Scottish preaching and theology. She is a member of the Free 
church, and attends, in London, Dr. Cumming’s congregation. I derived 
the impression from her remarks, that the style of preaching in Scotland is 
more discriminating and doctrinal than in England. One who studies the 
pictures given in Scott’s novels must often have been struck with the 
apparent similarity in the theologic training and tastes of the labouring 



198 SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 

classes in New England and Scotland. The hard-featured man, whom lie 
describes in Rob Roy as following the preacher so earnestly, keeping 
count of the doctrinal points on his successive fingers, is one which can 
still be seen in the retired, rural districts of New England; and I believe 
that this severe intellectual discipline of the pulpit has been one of the 
greatest means in forming that strong, self-sustaining character peculiar to 
both countries. 

The Duke of Argyle said that Chevalier Bunsen had been speaking to 
him in relation to a college for coloured people at Antigua, and inquired 
my views respecting the emigration of coloured people from America to 
the West India islands. I told him my impression was, that Canada would 
be a much better place to develope the energies of the race. First, on 
account of its cold and bracing climate; second, because, having never been a 
slave state, the white population there are more thrifty and industrious, 
and of course the influence of such a community was better adapted to form 
thrift and industry in the negro. 

In the evening, some of the ladies alluded to the dress-maker’s letter in 
the Times. I inquired if there was nothing done for them as a class in 
London, and some of them said,— 

“ 0, Lord Shaftesbury can tell you all about it; he is president of the 
society for their protection.” 

So I said to Lord Shaftesbury, playfully, ‘ ‘ I thought, my lord, you 
had reformed everything here in London.” 

“ Ah, indeed,” he replied, “but this was not in one of my houses. I 
preside over the West End.” 

He talked on the subject for some time with considerable energy ; said 
it was one of the most difficult he had ever attempted to regulate, and 
promised to send me a few documents, which would show the measures he 
had pursued. He said, however, that there was progress making; and 
spoke of one establishment in particular, which had recently been erected in 
London, and was admirably arranged with regard to ventilation, being 
conducted in the most perfect manner. 

Quite a number of distinguished persons were present this evening ; 
among others, Sir David Brewster, famed in the scientific world. He is a 
fine-looking old gentleman, with silver-white hair, who seemed to be on 
terms of great familiarity with the duke. He bears the character of a 
decidedly religious man, and is an elder in the Free church. 

Lord Mahon, the celebrated historian, was there, with his lady. He is 
a young-looking man, of agreeable manners, and fluent in conversation. 
This I gather from Mr. S., with whom he conversed very freely on our 
historians, Prescott, Bancroft, and especially Dr. Sparks, his sharp con¬ 
troversy with whom he seems to bear with great equanimity. 

Lady Mahon is a handsome, interesting woman, with very pleasing 
manners. 

Mr. Gladstone was there also, one of the ablest and best men in the 
kingdom. It is a commentary on his character that, although one of the 
highest of the High Church, we have never heard him spoken of, even 
among dissenters, otherwise than as an excellent and highly conscientious man. 
For a gentleman who has attained to such celebrity, both in theology and 
politics, he looks remarkably young. He is tall, with dark hair and eyes, 


LONDON MILLINERS AND DRESSMAKERS. 199 

a thoughtful, serious cast of countenance, and is easy and agreeable in 
conversation. 

On tho whole, this was a very delightful evening. 


LETTER XXVI. 

LONDON MILLINERS AND DRESSMAKERS.—LORD SHAFTESBURY. 

Dear C. :— 

I will add to this a little sketch, derived from the documents sent me by 
Lord Shaftesbury, of the movements in behalf of the milliners and dress* 
makers in London for seven years past. 

About thirteen years ago, in the year 1841, Lord Shaftesbury obtained 
a parliamentary commission of inquiry into the employment of children and 
young persons in various trades and manufactures. This commission, 
among other things, was directed toward the millinery and dressmaking 
trade. These commissioners elicited the following facts: that there were 
fifteen hundred employers in this trade in London, and fifteen thousand 
young people employed, besides a great number of journey women who took 
the work home to their own houses. They discovered, also, that during 
the London season, wdiich occujfied about four months of the year, the 
regular hours of work were fifteen, but in many establishments they were 
entirely unlimited—the young women never getting more than six hours 
for sleep, and often only two or three; that frequently they worked all 
night and part of Sunday. They discovered, also, that the rooms in which 
they worked and slept were overcrowded, and deficient in ventilation; and 
that, in consequence of all these causes, blindness, consumption, and mul¬ 
titudes of other diseases carried thousands of them yearly to the grave. 

These facts being made public to the English nation, a society was formed 
in London in 1843, called the Association for the Aid of Millinersand Dress¬ 
makers. The president of this society is the Earl of Shaftesbury; the 
vice presidents are twenty gentlemen of the most influential position. Be¬ 
sides this there is a committee of ladies, and a committee of gentlemen. At 
the head of the committee of ladies stands the name of the Duchess of 
Sutherland, with seventeen others, among whom we notice the Countess of 
Shaftesbury, Countess of Ellesmere, Lady Robert Grosvenor, and others of 
the upper London sphere. The subscription list of donations to the society 
is headed by the queen and royal family. 

The features of the plan which the society undertook to carry out were 
briefly these:— 

First, they opened a registration office, where all young persons desiring 
employment- in the dressmaking trade might enroll their names free of 
expense, and thus come in a manner under the care of the association. 
From the young people thus enrolled, they engaged to supply to the prin j 
cipals of dressmaking establishments extra assistants in periods of uncommon 

essure, so that they should not be under the necessity of overtaxing their 
workwomen. This assistance is extended only to those houses which will 
observe the moderate hours recommended by the association. 

In the second place, an arrangement is made by which the young persons 
thus registered are entitled to the best of medical advice at any time, for 





200 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS, 

the sum of five shillings per year. Three physicians and two consulting 
surgeons are connected with the association. 

In the third place, models of simple and cheap modes ot ventilation are 
kept at all times at the office of the society, and all the influence of the 
association is used to induce employers to place them in the work and 
sleeping rooms. 

Fourth, a kind of savings bank has been instituted, in which the work¬ 
women are encouraged to deposit small earnings on good interest. 

This is the plan of the society, and as to its results I have at hand the 
report for 1851, from which you can gather some particulars, of its prac¬ 
tical workings. They say, ‘ ‘ Eight years have elapsed since this association 
was established, during which a most gratifying change has been wrought 
in respect to the mode .of conducting the dressmaking and millinery business. 

“ Without overstepping the strict limits of truth, it may be affirmed that 
the lai’ger part of the good thus achieved is attributable to the influence and 
unceasing efforts of this society. The general result, so far as the metropolis 
is concerned, may be thus stated : First, the hours of work, speaking gene¬ 
rally, now rarely exceed twelve, whereas formerly sixteen, seventeen, and 
eighteen hours were not unusual. 

‘ ‘ Second, the young persons are rarely kept up all night, which was for¬ 
merly not an unusual occurrence. 

“Third, labour on the Lord’s-day, it is confidently believed, has been 
entirely abrogated. 

“ Under the old system the health and constitution of many of the young 
people were irretrievably destroyed. At present permanent loss of health 
is rarely entailed, and even when sickness does from any cause arise, skilful 
and prompt advice and medicine are provided at a moderate charge by 
the association. 

“ In addition to these and similar ameliorations, other and more im¬ 
portant changes have been effected. Among the heads of establishments, 
as the committee are happy to know and most willing to record, more ele¬ 
vated views of the duties and responsibilities, inseparable from employers, 
have secured to the association the zealous co-operation of numerous and 
influential principals, without whose aid the efforts of the last few years 
would have been often impeded, or even in many instances defeated. Nor 
have the young persons engaged in the dressmaking and millinery busi¬ 
ness remained uninfluenced amidst the general improvement. Finding that 
a strenuous effort was in progress to promote their physical and moral 
welfare, and that increased industry on their part would be rewarded by 
diminished hours of work, the assistants have become more attentive, 
the workrooms are better managed, and both parties, relieved from a 
system which was oppressive to all and really beneficial to none, have 
recognised the fundamental truth, that in no industrial pursuit is there 
any real incompatibility between the interests, rightfully interpreted, 
of the employer and the employed. Although not generally 
known, evils scarcely less serious than those formerly prevalent in the 
metropolis were not uncommon in the manufacturing towns and fashionable 
watering-places. It is obviously impracticable to ascertain to what extent 
the efforts of the association have been attended with success in the pro¬ 
vinces ; but a rule has been established that in no instance shall the co-ope¬ 
ration of the office, in providing assistants, be extended to any establishment 


LONDON MILLINERS AND DRESSMAKERS. 


201 


in which the hours of work are known to exceed those laid down by the 
association. On these conditions the principals of many country establish¬ 
ments have for several years been supplied ; latterly, indeed, owing to the 
great efficiency of the manager, Miss Newton, and to the general satisfaction 
thus created, these applications have so much increased as to constitute a 
principal part of the business of the office ; and with the increase the influ¬ 
ence of the association has been proportionally extended.” 

This, as you perceive, was the report for 1851. Lord Shaftesbury has 
kindly handed me the first proof of the report for 1853, from which 1 will 
send you a few extracts. 

After the publication of the letter from the ladies of England to the 
ladies of America, much was said in the Times and other newspapers 
with regard to the condition of the dressmakers. These things arc what 
are alluded to in the commencement of the report. They say,— 

“In presenting their annual report, the committees would in the first 
place refer to the public notice that has lately been directed to the mode in 
which the dressmaking and millinery business is conducted : tliis they feel to 
be due both to the association and to those employers who have co-operated 
in the good work of improvement. It has been stated in former reports, that 
since the first establishment of this society, in the year 1843, and essen¬ 
tially through its influence, great ameliorations have been secured; that 
the inordinate hours of work formerly prevalent had, speaking generally, 
been greatly reduced; that Sunday labour had been abolished; that the 
young people were rarely kept up all night; and that, as a consequence 
of these improvements, there had been a marked decrease of serious sickness. 

“ At the present moment, in consequence of the statements that have 
appeared in the public journals, and in order to guard against misconcep¬ 
tions, the committees are anxious to announce that they perceive no reason 
for withdrawing any of their preceding statements—the latest, equally with 
former investigations, indicating the great impfovement effected in recent 
yeai’s. The manager at the office has been instructed to make express 
inquiries of the young dressmakers themselves; and the result distinctly 
proves that, on the whole, there has been a marked diminution in the hours 
of work. 

“The report of Mr. Trouncer, the medical officer who has attended the 
larger number of the young persons for whom advice has been provided by 
the association, is equally satisfactory. This gentleman, after alluding to 
the great evils in regard to health inflicted in former years, remarks that 
these have, through the instrumentality of the association, been greatly 
ameliorated ; that, as regards consumption,—although the nature of the 
employment itself, however modified by kindness, has a tendency to develop 
the disease where the predisposition exists,—he is happy to state that the 
average number of cases, even in the incipient stage, has not been so great 
as might, from the circumstances, have been anticipated; that during the 
last two years, out of about two hundred and fifty cases of sickness, no 
death has occurred; and that but in a few instances only has it been neces¬ 
sary to advise a total cessation of business. Mr. Trouncer adds—and this 
is a statement which the committees have much pleasure in announcing— 
that, in the majority of the West End houses, the principals have, in cases 
(if sickness, acted the part of parents, evincing, in some instances, even more 
care than, the young persons themselves. 


202 


SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


“In addition to these satisfactory and reliable statements, it is a matter 
of simple justice to state that many houses of business have co-operated 
with the association in reducing the hours of work, in improving the work¬ 
rooms and sleeping apartments, and generally in promoting the comfort of 
those in their employ. Some employers have also very creditably, and at* 
considerable expense, exerted themselves to secure a good sj'stem of venti¬ 
lation—a subject to which the committees attach great importance, both as 
regards the health and comfort of those employed. 

“ It is not, by these statements, intended to be said that all requiring 
amendment has been corrected. In their last report the committees re¬ 
marked that some few* houses of business systematically persisted in exact¬ 
ing excessive labour from their assistants; and they regret to state that this 
observation is still applicable. The important subject of ventilation is still 
much neglected, and there is reason to apprehend that the sleeping apart¬ 
ments are often much overcrowded. Another and a more prevailing evil 
relates to the time allowed for meals : this is often altogether insufficient, 
and strongly contrasted with the custom in other industrial pursuits, in 
which one hour for dinner, and half an hour for breakfast or tea, as the 
case may be, is the usual allowance. In an occupation so sedentary as 
dressmaking, and especially in the case of young females, hurried meals are 
most injurious, and are a frequent cause of deranged health. It is also the 
painful duty of the committees to state that in some establishments, accord¬ 
ing to the medical report, the principals, in cases of sickness, will neither 
allow' the young people an opportunity of calling on the medical officer for 
his advice, nor permit that gentleman to visit them at the place of business. 
The evils resulting from this absence of all proper feeling are so obvious that 
it is hoped this public rebuke will in future obviate the necessity of recur¬ 
ring to so painful a topic.” 

The committee after this proceed to publish the following declaration, 
signed by fifty-three of the West End dressmakers:— 

‘ ‘ ‘ We, the undersigned principals of millinery and dressmaking esta¬ 
blishments at the West End of London, having observed in the newspapers 
statements of excessive labour in our business, feel called upon, in self- 
defence, to make the following public statement, especially as we have reason 
to believe that some of the assertions contained in the letters published in 
the newspapers are not wholly groundless :— 

“ £ 1. During the greater portion of the year w*e do not require the young 
people in our establishments to work more than twelve hours, inclusive of 
one hour and a half for meals : from March to July we require them to 
woi*k thirteen hours and a half, allowing during that time one hour’s rest 
for dinner, and half an hour’s rest for tea. 

“ ‘ 2. It has been our object to provide suitable sleeping accommodations, 
and to avoid overcrowding. 

“ ‘ 8. In no case do we require wmrk on Sundays, or all night. 

“‘4. The food we supply is of the best quality, and unlimited in 
quantity.’ ” 

Five of these dressmakers, whose names are designated by stars, signed 
with the understanding that on rare occasions the hours might possibly be 
exceeded. 

The remarks which the committee make, considering that it has upon its 
list the most influential and distinguished ladies of the London world, are, 


LONDON MILLINERS AND DRESSMAKERS. 


203 


I tliink, worth attention, as showing the strong moral influence which must 
thus be brought to bear, both on the trade and on fashionable society, by this 
association. They first remark, with regard to those employers who signed 
with the reservation alluded to, that they have every reason to believe that 
the feeling which prompted this qualification is to be respected, as it ori¬ 
ginated in a determination not to undertake more than they honestly in¬ 
tended to perform. 

They say of the document, on the whole, that, though not realizing all 
the views of the association, it must be regarded as creditable to those who 
have signed it, since it indicates the most important advance yet made to¬ 
wards the improvement of the dressmaking and millinery business. The 
committees then go on to express a most decided opinion, first, that the hours 
of work in the dressmaking trade ought not to exceed ten per diem ; second, 
that during the fashionable season ladies should employ sufficient time for 
the execution of their orders. 

The influence of this association, as will be seen, has extended all over 
England. In Manchester, a paper, signed by three thousand ladies, was 
presented to the principals of the establishments, desiring them to adopt 
the rules of the London association. 

I mentioned, in a former letter, that the lady mayoress of London, and 
the ladies of the city, held a meeting on the subject only a short time since, 
with a view of carrying the same improvement through all the establishments 
of that part of London. The lady mayoress and five others of this meet¬ 
ing consented to add their names to the committee, so that it now represents 
the whole of London. The Bishop of Londun and several of the clergy 
extend their patronage to the association. 


LETTER XXVII. 

AncimiSHor of Canterbury's sermon to the ragged SCHOLARS.—MR. cobden. 

—MISS GREENFIELD’S CONCERT.—REV. S.E.WARD.—LADY BYRON.—MRS. JAMESON. 
—GEORGE TudMFSON.—ELLEN CKOFT3. 


Dear S. :— 

The next day we went to hear a sermon in behalf of the ragged schools, 
by the Archbishop of Canterbury. The children who attended the ragged 
schools of that particular district were seated in the gallery, each side of 
the organ. As this was the Sunday appropriated to the exercise, all three 
of the creeds were read—the Apostles’, Athanasian, and Xicene; all which 
the little things repeated after the archbishop, with great decorum, and 
probably with the same amount of understanding that we, when children, 
had of the Assembly’s Catechism. 

The venerable archbishop was ushered into the pulpit by beadles, w ith 
gold lace cocked hats, striking the ground majestically with their long 
staves of office. His sermon, however, was as simple, clear and beautiful 
an exposition of the duty of practical Christianity towards the outcast and 
erring as I ever heard. He said that, should we find a young child, wan* 
dering away from its home and friends, we should instinctively feel it our 
duty to restore the little wanderer; and such, he said, is the duty we owe 






SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


204 

to all these young outcasts, who had strayed from the home of theii 
heavenly Father. 

After the sermon they took up a collection ; and when we went into the 
vestry to speak to the archbishop, Ave saw him surrounded by the church¬ 
wardens, counting 0A T er the money. I noticed in the back part of the 
church a number of children in tattered garments, with rather a forlorn 
and wild appearance, and was told that these were those who had just been 
introduced into the school, and had not been there long enough to come 
under its modifying inlluences. We were told that they AA'erc always thus 
torn and forlorn in their appearance at first, but that they gradually took 
pains to make themselves respectable. The archbishop said, pleasantly, 
“When they return to their right mind they appear clothed , also, and 
sitting at the feet of Jesus.” 

The archbishop sent me afterwards a beautiful edition of his sermons on 
Christian charity, embracing a series of discourses on various topics of 
practical benevolence, relating to the elevation and Christianization of the 
masses. They are written with the same purity of style, and sIioav the 
same devout and benevolent spirit with his other writings. 

My thoughts were much saddened to-day by the news, which I received 
this week, of the death of Mary Edmonson. It is not for her that I could 
Aveep ; for she died as calmly and serenely as she lived, resigning her soul 
into the hands of her SaAnour. What I do weep for is, that under the flag 
of my country—and that country a Christian one—such a life as Mary’s 
could have been lived, and so little said or done about it. 

In the afternoon I Avent to the deanery of St. Paul’s—a retired building 
in a deep court opposite the cathedral. After a brief conversation with Mr. 
and Mrs. Milman, we Avent to the cathedral. I had never seen it before, 
and was much impressed with the majesty and grace of the interior. 
Nevertheless, the Italian style of architecture, Avith all its elegance, fails 
to affect me equally with the Gothic. The A'ery rudeness of the latter, a 
something inchoate and unfinished, is significant of matter struggling with 
religious ideas too vast to be fully expressed. Even as in the ancient 
Scriptures there are ideas which seem to 0 A r ertask the powers of human 
language. I sat down with Mrs. M. in one of the little compartments, or 
stalls, as they are called, into which the galleries are divided, and which 
are richly carved in black oak. The AA r hole service was chanted by a choir 
expressly trained for the purpose. Some of the performers are boys of 
about thirteen years, and of beautiful countenances. There is a peculiar 
manner of reading the service practised in the cathedrals, which is called 
“ intoning.” It is a plaintive, rythmical chant, with as strong an unction 
of the nasal as ever prevailed in a Quaker or Methodist meeting. I cannot 
exactly understand Avhy Episcopacy threw out the slur of “nasal twang” 
as one of the peculiarities of the conventicle, when it is in full force in the 
most approved seats of church orthodoxy. I listened to all in as uncritical 
and sympathetic a spirit as possible, giving myself up to be lifted by the 
music as high as it could Avaft me. To one thus listening, it is impossible 
to criticise with severity; for, unless positively offensive, any music becomes 
beautiful by the poAver of sympathy and association. After service avo 
listened to a short sermon from the Rev. Mr. Yilliers, feiwent, affectionate, 
and evangelical in spirit, and much in the general style of sermonizing 
which I have already described. 


ME. COBDEN. 


205 

Monday morning, May 23. We went to breakfast at Mr. Cobden’s. 
Mr. C. is a man of slender frame, rather under than over the middle size, 
with great ease of manner, and flexibility of movement, and the most frank, 
fascinating smile. His appearance is a sufficient account of his popularity, 
for lie seems to be one of those men who carry about them an atmosphere 
of vivacity and social exhilaration. We had a very pleasant and social time, 
discussing and comparing things in England and America. Mr. Cobden 
assured us that he had had curious calls from Americans, sometimes. 
Once an editor ot a small village paper called, who had been making a tour 
through the rural districts of England. He said that he had asked some 
mowers how they were prospering. They answered, “We ain’t prosperin’; 
we’re hayin’.” Said Cobden, “I told the man, ‘Now don’t you go home 
and publish that in your paper;’ but he did, nevertheless, and sent me 
over the paper with the story in it.” I might have comforted him with 
many a similar anecdote of Americans, as for example, the man who was 
dead set against a tariff, “ ’cause he knew if they once got it, they’d run 
the old thing right through his farmor those immortal Pennsylvania 
Dutchmen, who, to this day, it is said, give in all their votes under the solemn 
conviction that they are upholding General Jackson’s administration. 

The conversation turned on the question of the cultivation of cotton by free 
labour. The importance of this great measure was fully appreciated by Mr. 
Cobden, as it must be by all. The difficulties to be overcome in establishing 
the movement were no less clearly seen, and ably pointed out. On the whole, 
the comparison of views was not only interesting in a high degree, but to us, 
at least, eminently profitable. We ventured to augur favourably to the 
cause from the indications of that interview. 

From this breakfast we returned to dine at Surrey parsonage; and, after 
dinner, attended Miss Greenfield’s concert at Stafford House. Mr. S. could 
not attend on account of so soon leaving town. 

The concert room was the brilliant and picturesque hall I have before 
described to you. It looked more picture-like and dreamy than ever. The 
piano was on the flat stairway just below the broad central landing. It was 
a grand piano, standing end outward, and perfectly banked up among hot¬ 
house flowers, so that only its gilded top was visible. Sir George Smart 
presided. The choicest of the elite were there. Ladies in demi-toilet and 
bonneted. Miss Greenfield stood among the singers on the staircase, and 
excited a sympathetic murmur among the audience. She is not handsome, 
but looked very well. She has a pleasing dark face, wore a black velvet 
headdress and white cornelian earrings, a black mohr antique silk, made 
high in the neck, w r ith white lace falling sleeves and white gloves. A cer¬ 
tain gentleness of manner and self-possession, the result of the universal 
kindness shown her, sat well upon her. Chevalier Bunsen, the Prussian 
ambassador, sat by me. He looked at her with much interest. “ Are the 
tace often as good looking ?” he said. I said, “ She is not handsome, com¬ 
pared with many, though I confess she looks uncommonly well to-day.” 

Among the company present I noticed the beautiful Marchioness of Staf¬ 
ford. I have spoken of her once before; but it is difficult to describe her, 
there is something so perfectly simple, yet elegant, in her appearance ; but 
it has cut itself like a cameo in my memory—a figure under the middle size, 
perfectly moulded, dressed simply in black, a beautiful head, hair d la, 
Madonna , ornamented by a band of gold coins on black velvet; a band of 





206 SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 

the same hind encircling her throat is the only relief to the severe simplicity 
of her dress. 

The singing was beautiful. Six of the most cultivated glee singers of 
London sang, among other things, “ Spring’s delights are now returning,” 
and “ Where the bee sucks there lurk I.” The duchess said, “ These glees 
are peculiarly English. ” It was indeed delightful to hear Shakspeare’s 
aerial words made vocal within the walls of this fairy palace. The duchess 
has a strong nationality; and nationality, always interesting, never appears 
in so captivating a form as when it expresses itself through a beautiful and 
cultivated woman. One likes to see a person identifying one’s self with a 
country, and she embraces England, with its history, its strength, its splen¬ 
dour, its moral power, with an evident pride and affection which I love to 
see. 

Miss Greenfield’s turn for singing now came, and there was profound 
attention. Her voice, with its keen, searching fire, its penetrating, vibrant 
quality, its “ timbre ,” as the French have it, cut its way like a Damascus 
blade to the heart. It was the more touching from occasional rusticities 
and artistic defects, which showed that she had received no culture from 
art. 

She sang the ballad, “Old folks at home,” giving one verse in the 
soprano, and another in the tenor voice. 

As she stood partially concealed by the piano, Chevalier Bunsen thought 
that the tenor part was performed by one of the gentlemen. He was per¬ 
fectly astonished when he discovered that it was by her. This was raptur¬ 
ously encored. Between the parts Sir George took her to the piano, and 
tried her voice by skips, striking notes here and there at random, without 
connexion, from D in alt to A first space in Bass clef : she followed with 
unerring precision, striking the sound nearly at the same instant his finger 
touched the key. This brought out a burst of applause. 

After the concert we walked through the rooms. The effect of the groups 
of people sauntering through the hall or looking down from the gallci’ies was 
pictured ike. Two of the duke’s Highland pipers, in full costume, playing 
their bagpipes, now made their appearance, and began to promenade the 
halls, playing. Their dress reminds me, in its effect, of that of our Ameri¬ 
can Indians, and their playing is wild and barbaric. It had a striking effect 
among these wide halls and corridors. There is nothing poetic connected 
with the history and v position of the family of which the fair owner of the 
halls does not feel the power, and which she cannot use with artistic skill 
in heightening the enchantments of an entertainment. 

llev. S. It. Ward attracted attention in the company, as a full-blooded 
African, tall enough for a palm tree. I observed him in conversation with 
lords, dukes, and ambassadors, sustaining himself modestly, but with self- 
possession. All who converse with him are satisfied that there is no native 
difference between the African and other men. 

The duchess took me to look at a model of Dunrobin—their castle on the 
Sutherland estate. It is in the old French chateau style in general archi¬ 
tecture, something like the print of Glammis. It is curious that the French 
architecture has obtained in Scotland. Her grace kindly invited me to visit 
Dunrobin on my return to Scotland in the autumn, taking it after Inverary. 
5his will be delightful. That Scottish coast I love almost like my own 
country. 


LADY EYEON. 


207 

Lord Shaftesbury was there. He came and spoke to us after the concert. 
Speaking of Miss Greenfield, he said, “ I consider the use of these halls for 
the encouragement of an outcast race, a consecration. This is the true use 
of wealth and splendour when it is employed to raise up and encourage the 
despised and forgotten.” 

In the evening, though very weary, C. persuaded me to accept an invita¬ 
tion to hear the Creation, at Exeter Hall, performed by the London Sacred 
Harmonic Society. They had kindly reserved a gallery for us, and when, 
we went, in Mr. Surman, the founder and for twenty years conductor of the 
society, presented me with a beautifully bound copy of the Creation. 

Having never heard it before, I could not compare the performance with 
others. I heai'd it as I should hear a poem read, simply thinking of the 
author’s ideas, and not of the style of reading. Haydn I was thinking of, 
—the bright, brilliant, cheerful Haydn,—who, when complained of for 
making church music into dancing tunes, replied, “When I think of God, 
rny soul is always so full of joy that I want to dance !” This Creation is a 
descriptive poem—the garden parts unite Thomson and Milton’s style—the 
whole effect pastoral, yet brilliant. I was never more animated. I had 
had a new experience; it is worth while to know nothing to have such a 
fresh sensation. 

The next day, Tuesday, May 24, we went to lunch with Miss Ik, at 
Oxford Terrace. Among a number of distinguished guests was Lady Byron, 
with whom I had a few moments of deeply interesting conversation. No 
engravings that ever have been circulated of her in America do any justice 
to her appearance. She is of a slight figure, formed with exceeding delicacy, 
and her whole form, face, dress, and air unite to make an impression of a 
character singularly dignified, gentle, pure, and yet strong. No words 
addressed to me in any conversation hitherto have made their way to my 
inner soul with such force as a few remarks dropped by her on the present 
religious aspect of England—remarks of such a quality as one seldom hears. 

Lady Byron’s whole course, I have learned, has been one made venerable 
by consistent, active benevolence. I was happy to find in her the patroness 
of our American outcasts, William and Ellen Crafts. She had received 
them into the schools of her daughter, Lady Lovelace, at Occum, and now 
spoke in the highest terms of their character and proficiency in study. 
The story of their misfortunes, united with their reputation for worth, had 
produced such an impression on the simple country people, that they 
always respectfully touch their hats when meeting them. Ellen, she says, 
has become mother of a most beautiful child, and their friends are now 
making an effort to put them into some little business by which they may 
obtain a support. 

I could not but observe with regret the evident fragility of Lady Byron’s 
health ; yet why should I regret it ? Why wish to detain here those whose 
home is evidently from hence, and who will only then fully live when the 
shadow we call life is passed away ? 

Here, also, I was personally introduced to a lady with whom I had 
passed many a dreamy hour of spiritual communion—Mrs. Jameson, 
whose works on art and artists were for years almost my only food for a 
certain class of longings. 

Mrs. Jameson is the most charming of critics, with the gift, often too 
little prized, of discovering and pointing out beauties rather than defects; 


203 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS, 


beauties which we may often have passed unnoticed, but which, when so 
pointed out, never again conceal themselves. This .shows itself particularly 
in her “Characteristics of Shakspeare’s Women,” a critique which only a 
true woman could have written. 

She seemed rather surprised to find me inquiring about art and artists. 
I asked her where one might go to study that subject most profitably, and 
her answer was, in Munich. 

By her side was Mrs. Chisholm, the author of those benevolent move¬ 
ments for the emigrants, which I have mentioned to you. She is a stout, 
practical looking woman, who impresses you with the idea of perfect health, 
exuberant life, and an iron constitution. Her face expresses decision, 
energy, and good sense. She is a woman of few words, every moment 
of whose time seems precious. 

One of her remarks struck me, from the quaint force with which it was 
uttered. “ I found,” said she, “if we want anything done, we must go 
to work and do ; it is of no use to talk, none whatever.” It is the secret 
of her life’s success. Mrs. Chisholm first began by doing on a small scale 
what she wanted done, and people seeing the result fell in with and helped 
her; but to have convinced them of the feasibility of her plans by talking , 
without this practical demonstration, would have been impossible. 

At this reunion, also, was Mr. George Thompson, whom I had never 
seen before, and many of the warmest friends of the slave. During this 
visit I was taken ill, and obliged to return to Mr. Gurney’s, where I was 
indisposed during the remainder of the day, and late in the evening drove 
home to Surrey parsonage. 

The next evening, Wednesday, May 29, we attended an antislavery 
soiree , at Willis’s rooms, formerly known as Almack’s; so at least I was 
told. A number of large rooms were thrown open, brilliantly lighted and 
adorned, and filled with throngs of people. In the course of the evening 
we went upon the platform in the large hall, where an address was pre¬ 
sented by S. Bowley, Esq., of Gloucester. It was one of the most beautiful, 
sensible, judicious, and Christian addresses that could have been made, 
and I listened to it with unmingled pleasure. In reply, Mr. S. took 
occasion still further to explain his views with respect to the free-grown 
cotton movement in England, and its bearings on the future progress of the 
cause of freedom.* 

After the addresses we dispersed to different rooms, where refreshment 
tables were bountifully laid out and adorned. By my side, at one end of 
them, was a young female of pleasing exterior, with fine eyes, delicate per¬ 
son, neatly dressed in white. She was introduced to me as Ellen Crafts— 
a name memorable in Boston annals. Her husband, a pleasant, intelligent 
young man, with handsome manners, was there also. Had it not been for 
my introduction I could never have fancied Ellen to have been any other 
than some English girl with rather a paler cheek than common. She has 
very sweet manners, and uses uncommonly correct and beautiful language. 

* We are happy to say that a large body of religious persons in Great Britain have 
become favourable to these views. A vigorous society has been established, combining 
India reform and free cotton with the antislavery cause. The Earl of Albemarle made” 
while we were in London, a vigorous India reform speech in the House of Lords, and 
Messrs. Bright and Cobtlen are fully in for the same object in the Commons. Thero 
is much hope in the movement. 


MODEL LODGING-HOUSES. 


20a 


Lei it not be supposed that, with such witnesses as these among- them, our 
English brethren have derived their first practical knowledge of slavery 
from Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The mere knowledge that two such persons as 
\\ ilham andElleu Crafts have been rated as merchantable commodities, in any 
country but ours would be a sufficient comment on the system. 

We retired early after a very agreeable evening. 


LETTER XXVIII. 

MODI! LODGING-HOUSES.—LODGING-HOUSE ACT.—'WASHING-HOUSES. 

May 23. 

Mr dear Cousin :—- 

This morning Lord Shaftesbury came, according to appointment, to take 
me to see the Model Lodging Houses. He remarked that it would be im¬ 
possible to give me the full effect of seeing them, unless I could first visit the 
dens of filth, disease, and degradation, in which the poor of London formerly 
were lodged. With a good deal of satisfaction he told me that the Ame¬ 
rican minister, Mr. Ingersoll, previous to leaving London, had requested 
the police to take him over the dirtiest and most unwholesome parts of it, 
that he might see the lowest as well as the highest sphere of London life. 
After this, however, the policeman took him through the baths, wash¬ 
houses, and model lodging houses, which we were going to visit, and he 
expressed himself both surprised and delighted with the improvement that 
had been made. 

We first visited the lodging house for single men in Charles-street, Drury - 
lane. This was one of the first experiments made in this line, and to effect 
the thing in the most economical manner possible, three old houses wero 
bought and thrown into one, and fitted up for the pui’pose. On the ground 
floor we saw the superintendent’s apartment, and a large, long sitting- 
room, furnished with benches, and clean, scoured tables, where the inmates 
were, some of them, reading books or papers : the day being wet, perhaps, 
kept them from their work. In the kitchen were ample cooking accom¬ 
modations, and each inmate, as I understand, cooks for himself. Lord 
Shaftesbury said, that something like a common table had been tried, but 
that it was found altogether easier or more satisfactory for each one to suit 
himself. On this floor, also, was a bathing room, and a well-selected 
library of useful reading books, history, travels, &c. On the next floor 
were the dormitories—a great hall divided by board partitions into little 
sleeping cells about eight feet square, each containing a neat bed, chair, 
and stand. The partition does not extend quite up to the wall, and by 
this means while each inmate enjoys the privacy of a small room, he has all 
the comfort of breathing the air of the whole hall. 

A working man returning from his daily toil to this place, can first enjoy 
the comfort of a bath ; then, going into the kitchen, make his cup of tea 
or cofme, and sitting down at one of the clean, scoured tables in the sitting 
room, sip his tea, and look over a book. Or a friendly company may pre¬ 
pare their supper and sit down to tea together. Lord Shaftesbury said 
that the effect produced on the men by such an arrangement was wonderful. 
They became decent, decorous, and self-respecting. They passed rules of 

* / 








210 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

order for their community. They subscribed for their library from their 
own earnings, and the boohs are mostly of their own selection. “It is 
remarkable,” said his lordship, “ that of their own accord they decided to 
reject every profane, indecent, or immoral work. It showed,” he said, 
“ how strong are the influences of the surroundings in reforming or ruining 
the character.” It should be remarked that all these advantages are 
enjoyed for the same price charged by the most crowded and filthy of 
lodging houses, namely, fourpence per night, or two shillings per week. 
The building will accommodate eighty-two. The operation supports itself 
handsomely. 

I should remark, by the by, that in order to test more fully the practi¬ 
cability of the th ng, this was accomjdished in one of the worst neighbour¬ 
hoods in London. 

From these we proceeded to view a more perfect specimen of the same 
sort in the Model Lodging House of George Street, Bloomsbury Square, a 
house which was built de novo , for the purpose of perfectly illustrating the 
principle. This house accommodates one hundred and four working men, 
and combines everything essential or valuable in such an establishment— 
complete ventilation and drainage; the use of a distinct living room; a 
kitchen and a washhouse, a bath, and an ample supply of water, and all 
the conveniences which, while promoting the physical comfort of the in¬ 
mates, tend to increase their self-respect, and elevate them in the scale of 
moral and intellectual beings. The arrangement of the principal apart¬ 
ments is such as to insure economy as well as domestic comfort, the 
kitchen and washhouse being furnished with every requisite convenience, 
including a bath supplied with hot and cold water; also a separate and 
■well-ventilated safe for the food of each inmate. Under the care of the 
superintendent is a small, but well-selected library. 

The common room, thirty-three feet long, twenty-three feet wide, and 
ten feet nine inches high, is paved with white tiles, laid on brick arches, 
and on each side are two rows of tables with seats; at the fireplace is a 
constant supply of hot water, and above it are the rules of the establish¬ 
ment. The staircase, which occupies the centre of the building, is of 
stone. The dormitories, eight in number, ten feet high, are subdivided 
with moveable wood partitions six feet nine inches high; each compartment, 
enclosed by its own door, is fitted up with a bed, chair, and clothes box. 
A shaft is carried up at the end of every room, the ventilation through it 
being assisted by the introduction of gas, which lights the apartment. A 
similar shaft is carried up the staircase, supplying fresh air to the dormi¬ 
tories, with a provision for warming it, if necessary. The washing closets 
on each, floor are fitted up with slate, having japanned iron basins, and 
water laid on. 

During the fearful ravages of the cholera in this immediate neighbour¬ 
hood, not one case occurred in this house among its one hundred and four 
inmates. 

From this place we, proceeded to one, if anything, more interesting to me. 
This was upon the same principle appropriated to the lodgment of single 
women. When one considers the defenceless condition of single women, 
who labour for their own subsistence in a large city, how easily they are 
imposed upon and oppressed, and how quickly a constitution may be 
destroyed for want of pure air, fresh water, and other common necessaries 


MODEL LODGING-HOUSES. 211 

of life, one fully appreciates the worth of a large and beautiful building, 
which provides for this oppressed, fragile class. 

The Thanksgiving Model Buildings at Portpool Lane, Gray’s Inn, are 
so called because they were built with a thank-oiTei’ing collected in the 
various religious societies of London, as an appropriate expression of their 
gratitude to God for the removal of the cholera. This block cf buildings 
has in it accommodations for twenty families, and one hundred and twenty- 
eight single women ; together with a public washhouse, and a large cellar, 
in which are stored away the goods of those women who live by the 
huckster’s trade. 

The hundred and twenty-eight single women, of whom the majority are 
supposed to be poor needlewomen, occupy sixty-four rooms in a building of 
four stories, divided by a central staircase; a corridor on either side forms 
a lobby to eight rooms, each twelve feet six inches long, by nine feet six 
inches wide, sufficiently large for two persons. They are fitted up with 
two bedsteads, a table, chairs, and a washing-stand. The charge is one 
shilling per week for each person, or two shillings per room. 

Lord Shaftesbury took me into one of the rooms, where was an aged 
female partially bedridden, who maintained herself by sewing. The room 
was the picture of neatness and comfort; a good supply of hot and cold 
water was furnished in it. Her work was spread out by her upon the bed, 
together with her Bible and hymn book; she looked cheerful and comfort¬ 
able. She seemed pleased to see Lord Shaftesbury, whom she had evidently 
seen many times before, as his is a familiar countenance in all these places. 
She expressed the most fervent thankfulness for the quiet, order, and 
comfort of her pleasant lodgings, comparing them very feelingly with what 
used to be her condition before any such place had been provided. 

From this place we drove to the Streatham Street Lodging House for 
families. This building is, in the first place, fire-proof; in the second, 
the separation in the parts belonging to different families is rendered com¬ 
plete and perfect by the use of hollow brick for the partitions, winch en¬ 
tirely prevents, as I am told, the transmission of sound. 

By means of the sleeping closet adjoining the living room, each dwelling 
affords three good sleeping apartments. The meat safe preserves provisions 
The dust flue is so arranged that all the sweepings of the house, and all 
the refuse of the cookery, have only to be thrown down to disappear 
for ever; while the sink is supplied to an unlimited extent with hot and 
cold water. These galleries, into which every tenement opens, run round 
the inside of the hollow court which the building encloses, and afford an 
admirable play-place for the little children, out of the dangers and temp¬ 
tations of the street, and in view of their respective mothers. 

“Now,” said Lord Shaftesbury, as he was showing me through these 
tenements, which were models of neatness and good keeping, “you must 
bear in mind that these are tenanted by the very people who once were 
living in the dirtiest and filthiest lodging houses; people whom the world 
said, it did no good to try to help; that they liked to be dirty better than 
clean, and would be dirty under any circumstances. 

He added the following anecdote to show the effect of poor lodgings in 
degrading the character. A fine young man, of some considerable taste 
and talent, obtained his living by designing patterns for wall paper.. A 
long and expensive illness so reduced his circumstances, that he was obliged 

p 2 







212 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


to remove to one of these low, filthy lodging houses already alluded to. From 
that time he became an altered man; his wife said that he lost all energy, 
all taste in designing, love of reading, and fondness for his family; began 
to frequent drinking shops, and was visibly on the road to ruin. Hearing 
of these lodging houses, he succeeded in renting a tenement in one of them, 
for the same sum which he had paid for the miserable dwelling. Under 
the influence of a neat, airy, pleasant, domestic home, the man’s better 
nature again awoke, his health improved, he ceased to crave ardent spirits, 
and his former ingenuity in his profession returned. 

“Now, this shows,” said Lord Shaftesbury, “that hundreds may have 
been ruined simply by living in miserable dwellings.” I looked into this 
young man’s tenement; it was not only neat, but ornamented with a great 
variety of engravings tastefully disposed upon the wall. On my expressing 
my pleasure in this circumstance, he added, “ It is one of the pleasantest 
features of the case, to notice how soon they began to ornament their little 
dwellings; some have cages with singing birds, and some pots of flowering 
plants; some, pictures and engravings.” 

“ And are these buildings successful in a pecuniary point of view?” I 
said. “Do they pay their own way?” 

“Yes,” he replied, “they do. I consider that these buildings, if they 
have done nothing more, have established two points: first, that the poor 
do not prefer dirt and disorder, where it is possible for them to secure 
neatness and order; and second, that buildings with every proper accom¬ 
modation can be afforded at a price which will support an establishment.” 

Said I, “Are people imitating these lodging houses very rapidly?” 

“To a great extent they are,” he replied, “but not so much as I desire. 
Buildings on these principles have been erected in the principal towns of 
England and Scotland. The state of the miserable dwellings, courts, alleys, 
&c., is the consequence of the neglect of foi'mer days, when speculators 
and builders were allowed to do as they liked, and run up hovels, where 
the working man, whose house must be regulated, not by his choice, but 
by his work, was compelled then, as he is now, to live, however narrow, 
unhealthy, or repulsive the place might be. This was called ‘ the liberty 
of the subject.’” It has been one of Lord Shaftesbury’s most arduous 
parliamentary labours to bring the lodging houses under governmental 
regulation. He told me that he introduced a bill to this effect in the House 
of Commons, while a member, as Lord Ashley, and that just as it had 
passed through the House of Commons, he entered the House of Lords, as 
Lord Shaftesbury, and so had the satisfaction of carrying the bill to its 
completion in that house, where it passed in the year 1851. The provi¬ 
sions of this bill require every keeper of a lodging house to register his 
name at the metropolitan police office, under a penalty of a fine of five 
pounds for every lodger received before this is done. After having given 
notice to the police, they are not allowed to receive lodgers until the officers 
have inspected the house, to see whether it accords with the required con¬ 
ditions. These conditions are, that the walls and ceilings be whitewashed; 
that the floors, stairs, beds, and bedclothes are clean; that there be some 
mode of ventilating every room; that each house be provided with every 
accommodation for promoting decency and neatness; that the drains and 
cesspools are perfect; the yards properly paved, so as to run dry; and that 
each house has a supply of water, with conveniences for cooking and wash- 


LODGING-HOUSE ACT. 


213 

icg; and finally, that no person with an infectious disease is inhabiting 
the house. It is enacted, moreover, that only so many shall be placed in 
a room as shall be permitted by the commissioners of the police; and it is 
made an indispensable condition to the fitness of a house, that the pro¬ 
prietor should hang up in every room a card, properly signed by the police 
inspector, stating the precise number who are allowed to be lodged there. 
The law also strictly forbids persons of different sexes occupying the same 
room, except in case of married people with children under ten years of 
age; more than one married couple may not inhabit the same apartment, 
without the provision of a screen to secure privacy. It is also forbidden 
to use the kitchens, sculleries, or cellars for sleeping rooms, unless spe¬ 
cially permitted by the police. The keeper of the house is required 
thoroughly to whitewash the walls and ceilings twice a year, and to cleanse 
the drains and cesspools whenever required by the police. In case of sick¬ 
ness, notice must be immediately given to the police, and such measures 
pursued, for preventing infection, as may be deemed judicious by the 
inspector. 

The commissioner of police reports to the secretary of state systematically 
as to the results of this system. 

After looking at these things, we proceeded to view one of the model 
washing houses, which had been erected for the convenience of poor women. 
We entered a large hall, which was divided by low wood partitions into 
small apartments, in each of which a woman was washing. The whole 
process of washing clothes in two or three waters, and boiling them, can be 
effected without moving from the spot, or changing the tub. Each succes¬ 
sive water is let out at the bottom, while fresh is let on from the top. 
When the clothes are ready to be boiled, a wooden cover is placed over 
them, and a stream of scalding steam is directed into the tub, bv turning 
a stop cock; this boils the water in a few moments, effectually cleansing 
the clothes; they are then whirled in a hollow cylinder till nearly dry, after 
which they are drawn through two rollers covered with flannel, which 
presses every remaining particle of water out of them. The clothes are 
then hung upon frames, which shut into large closets, and are dried by 
steam in a very short space of time. 

Lord Shaftesbury, pointing out the partitions, said, “ This is an arrange¬ 
ment of delicacy to save their feelings: their clothes are sometimes so old 
and shabby, they do not want to show them, poor things.” I thought this 
feature worthy of special notice. 

In addition to all these improvements for the labouring classes, very 
large bathing establishments have been set up expressly for the use of the 
working classes. To show the popularity and effectiveness of this move¬ 
ment, five hundred and fifty thousand baths were given in three houses 
during the year 1850. These bathing establishments for the working classes 
are rapidly increasing in every part of the kingdom. 

When we returned to our carriage after this survey, I remarked to Lord 
Shaftesbury, that the combined influence of these causes must have 
wrought a considerable change in the city. lie answered, with energy, 
“ You can have no idea. Whole streets and districts have been revolu¬ 
tionized by it. The people who were formerly savage and ferocious, 
because they supposed themselves despised and abandoned, are now per¬ 
fectly quiet and docile. I can assure you that Lady Shaftesbury has walked 


214 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


alone, with no attendant but a little child, through streets in London wdiere, 
years ago, a well-dressed man could not have passed safely without an 
escort of the police.” 

I said to him that I saw nothing now, with all the improvements they 
were making throughout the kingdom, to prevent their working classes 
from becoming quite as prosperous as ours, except the want of a temperance 
reformation. 

He assented with earnestness. He believed, he said, that the amount 
spent in liquors of various kinds, which do no good, hut much injury, was 
enough to furnish every labourer’s dwelling, not only with comforts, but 
with elegances. “ But then,” he said, “ one thing is to be considered : a 
reform of the dwellings will do a great deal towards promoting a tempei’- 
ance reformation. A man who lives in a close, unwholesome dwelling, 
deprived of the natural stimulus of fresh air and pure water, comes into a 
morbid and unhealthy state; he craves stimulants to support the sinking 
of his vital powers, caused by these unhealthy influences.” There is cer¬ 
tainly a great deal of truth in this; and I think that, in America, we 
should add to the force of our Maine law by adopting some of the restric¬ 
tions of the Lodging House Act. 

I have addressed this letter to you, my dear cousin, on account of the 
deep interest you have taken in the condition of the poor and perishing in 
the city of New York. While making these examinations, these questions 
occurred to my mind : Could our rich Christian men employ their capital 
in a more evangelical manner, or more adorn the city of New York, than by 
raising a large and beautiful lodging house, which should give the means 
cf health, comfort, and vigour to thousands of poor needlewomen ? The 
same query may be repeated concerning all the other lodging-houses I have 
mentioned. Furthermore, should not a movement for the registration and 
inspection of common lodging houses keep pace with efforts to suppress the 
sale of spirits? The poison of these dismal haunts creates a craving for 
stimulants, which constantly tends to break over and evade law. 


LETTER XXIX. 

BENEVOLENT MOVEMENTS.—THE POOR LAWS.—THE INSANE.— 

FACTORY OPERATIVES.—SCHOOLS, ETC. 

Dear Father:— 

I wish in this letter to give you a brief view of the movements in this 
country for the religious instruction and general education of the masses. 
If we compare the tone of feeling now prevalent with that existing but a 
few years back, we notice a striking change. No longer ago than in the 
time of Lady Huntingdon we find a lady of quality ingenuously confessing 
that her chief source of scepticism in regard to Christianity was, that it 
actually seemed to imply that the educated, the refined, the noble, must 
needs be saved by the same Saviour and the same gospel with the ignorant 
and debased working classes. Traces of a similar style of feeling are dis¬ 
cernible in the letters of the polished correspondents of Hannah More. 
Robert Walpole gaily intimates himself somewhat shocked at the idea that 
the nobility and the vulgar should be equally subject to the restraints of tho 



BENEVOLENT MOVEMENTS. 215 

Sabbath and the law of God—equally exposed to tbe sanctions of endless 
retribution. And Young makes his high-born dame inquire, 

“ Shall pleasures of a short duration chain 
A lady’s soul in everlasting pain ?” 

In broad contrast to this, all the modern popular movements in England 
are based tipon the recognition of the equal value of every human soul. 
The Times , the most aristocratic paper in England, publishes letters from 
needlewomen and dressmakers’ apprentices, and reads grave lectures to 
duchesses and countesses on their duties to their poor sisters. One may 
fancy what a stir this would have made in the courtly circles of the reign 
of George II. Fashionable literature now arrays itself on the side of the 
working classes. The current of novel writing is reversed. Instead of 
milliners and chambermaids being bewitched with the adventures of 
countesses and dukes, we now have fine lords and ladies hanging enchanted 
over the history of John the Cari’ier, with his little Dot, dropping sympa¬ 
thetic tears into little Charlie’s wash-tub, and pursuing the fortunes of a 
dressmaker’s apprentice, in company with poor Sraike, and honest John 
JBrodie and his little Yorkshire wife. Punch laughs at everybody but the 
workpeople; and if, occasionally, he laughs at them, it is rather in a kindly 
way than with any air of contempt. Then, Prince Albert visits model 
lodging-houses, and commands all the ingenuity of the kingdom to expend 
itself in completing the ideal of a workman’s cottage for the great World’s 
Fair. Lords deliver lyceum lectures; ladies patronize ragged schools; 
committees of duchesses meliorate the condition of needlewomen. In short, 
the great ship of the world has tacked, and stands on another course. 

The beginning of this great humanitarian movement in England was 
undoubtedly the struggle of Clarkson, Wilberforce, and their associates, 
for the overthrow of the slave-trade. In that struggle the religious demo¬ 
cratic element was brought to bear for years upon the mind of Parliament. 
The negro, most degraded of men, was taken up, and for years made to 
agitate British society on the simple ground that he had a human soul. 

Of course the religious obligations of society to every human soul were 
involved in the discussion. It educated Parliament, it educated the com¬ 
munity. Parliament became accustomed to hearing the simple principles 
of the gospel asserted in its halls as of binding force. The community 
■were trained in habits of efficient benevolent action, which they have never 
lost. The use of tracts, of committees, of female co-operation, of voluntary 
association, and all the appliances of organized reform, were discovered and 
successfully developed. The triumphant victory then achieved, moreover, 
became the pledge of future conquests in every department of reform. 
Concerning the movements for the elevation of the masses, Lord Shaftesbury 
has kindly furnished me with a few brief memoranda, set down as nearly 
as possible in chronological order. 

In the first place, there has been a reform of the poor laws. So corrupt 
had this system become, that a distinct caste had well nigh sprung into 
permanent existence, families having been known to subsist in idleness for 
five generations solely by means of skilful appropi’iation of public and 
private charities. 

The law giving to paupers the preference in all cases where any public 
work was to be done, operated badly. Good workmen might starve for 


216 


SUNNY memories of foreign lands. 


want of work : by declaring tliemselves paupers they obtained employment. 
Thus, virtually, a bounty was offered to pauperism. Ilis lordship re¬ 
marks,— 

“ There have been sad defects, no doubt, and some harshness, under the 
new system; but the general result has been excellent; and, in many 
instances, the system has been reduced to practice in a truly patriarchal 
spirit. The great difficulty and the great failure are found in the right and 
safe occupation of children who are trained in these workhouses, of which 
so much lias been said.” 

In the second place, the treatment of the insane has received a thorough 
investigation. This began, in 1828, by a committee of inquiry, moved for 
by Mr. Gordon. 

An almost incredible amount of suffering and horrible barbarity was 
thus brought to light. For the most part it appeared that the treatment 
of the insane had been conducted on tlie old, absurd idea which cuts them 
off from humanity, and reduces them below the level of the brutes. The 
regimen in private madhouses was such that Lord Shaftesbury remarked of 
them, in a speech on the subject, “ I have said before, and now say again, 
that should it please God to visit me with such an affliction, I would greatly 
prefer the treatment of paupers, in an establishment like that of the Surrey 
Asylum, to tlie treatment of the rich in almost any one of these receptacles.” 

Instances are recorded of individuals who were exhumed from cells where 
they had existed without clothing or cleansing, as was ascertained, for 
years after they had entirely recovered the exercise of sound reason. 
Lord Shaftesbury procured the passage of bills securing the thorough super¬ 
vision of these institutions by competent visiting committees, and the sea¬ 
sonable dismissal of all who were pronounced cured; and the adoption for 
the pauper insane of a judicious course of remedial treatment. 

The third step was the passage of the ten-hour factory bill. This took 
nearly eighteen years of labour and unceasiffg activity in Parliament and in 
tlie provinces. Its operation affects full half a million of actual workers, 
and, if tlie families be included, nearly two millions of persons, young and 
old. Two thirds as many as the southern slaves. 

It is needless to enlarge on the horrible disclosures in reference to the 
factory operatives, made during this investigation. England never shud¬ 
dered with a deeper thrill at the unveiling of American slavery than did all 
America at this unveiling of the white-labour slavery of England. In read¬ 
ing the speeches of Lord Shaftesbury, one sees, that, in presenting this 
subject, be bad to encounter the same opposition and obloquy which now 
beset those in America who seek the abolition of slavery. 

In the beginning of one of liis speeches, his lordship says, “Nearly 
eleven years have now elapsed since I first made the proposition to the 
house which I shall renew this night. Never, at any time, have I felt 
greater apprehension, or even anxiety. Not through any fear of personal 
defeat; for disappointment is ‘ tlio badge of our tribe but because I know 
well the hostility that I have aroused, and the certain issues of indiscretion 
on my part affecting the welfare of those who have so long confided their 
hopes and interests to my charge.” One may justly wonder on what con¬ 
ceivable grounds any could possibly oppose the advocate of a measure like 
this. He was opposed ou the same ground that Clarkson was resisted in 
seeking the abolition of the slave trade. As Boswell said that “to abolish 


FACTORY OPERATIVES. 


217 

the slave trade would be to shut the gates of mercy on mankind,” so the 
advocates of eighteen hours labour in factories said that the ten-hour system 
would diminish produce, lower wages, and bring starvation on the work¬ 
men. His lordship was denounced as an incendiary, a meddling fanatic, 
interfering with the rights of masters, and desiring to exalt his own order 
by destroying the prosperity of the manufacturers. 

In the conclusion of one of his speeches, he says, ‘ ‘ Sir, it may not be 
given me to pass over this Jordan ; other and better men have preceded me, 
and I entered into their labours ; other and better men will follow me, and 
enter into mine; but this consolation I shall ever continue to enjoy—that, 
amidst much injustice and somewhat of calumny, we have at last ‘lighted 
such a candle in England as, by God’s blessing, shall never be put out.’” 

The next effort was to regulate the labour of children in the calico and 
print works. The great unhealthiness of the work, and the tender age of 
the children employed,—some even as young as four years—were fully dis¬ 
closed. An extract from his lordship’s remarks on this subject will show 
that human nature takes the same course in all countries: “Sir, in the 
various discussions on these kindred subjects, there has been a perpetual 
endeavour to drive us from the point under debate, and taunt us with a 
narrow and one-sided humanity. I was told there were far greater evils 
than those I had assailed—that I had left untouched much worse things. 
It was in vain to reply that no one could grapple with the whole at once ; 
my opponents on the ten-liour bill sent me to the collieries; when I invaded 
the collieries I was referred to the print-works; from the print-works I 
know not to what I shall be sent; for what can be worse ? Sir, it has been 
said to me, more than once, ‘ Where will you stop?’ I reply, Nowhere, so 
long as any portion of this mighty evil remains to be removed. I confess 
that my desire and ambition are to bring all the labouring children of this 
empire within the reach and opportunities of education, within the sphere 
of useful and happy citizens. I am ready, so far as my services are of any 
value, to devote what little I have of energy, and all the remainder of my 
life, to the accomplishment of this end. The labour would be great, and the 
anxieties very heavy; but I fear neither one nor the other. I fear nothing 
but defeat.” 

From the allusion, above, to the colliery effort, it would seem that the 
act for removing women and children from the coal-pits preceded the reform 
of the print-works. Concerning the result of these various enterprises, he 
says, “ The present state of things may be told in a few words. Full fifty 
thousand children under thirteen years of age attend school every day. 
None are worked more than seven, generally only six, hours in the day. 
Those above thirteen and under eighteen, and all women, are limited to ten 
hours and a half, exclusive of the time for meals. The work begins at six 
in the morning and ends at six in the evening. Saturday’s labour ends at 
four o’clock, and there is no work on Sunday. The print-works are brought 
under regulation, and the women and children removed from the coal-pits.” 
His lordship adds, “ The report of inspectors which I send you will give you 
faint picture of the physical, social, and moral good that has resulted. 
I may safely say of these measures, that God has blessed them far beyond 
iny expectation, and almost equal to my heart’s desire.” 

The next great benevolent movement is the ragged school system. From 
‘ miserable hole in Field Lane, they have grown up to a hundred and 




SUNNY MEMORIES OE EOREIGN LANDS. 


218 

sixteen in number. Of these Lord Shaftesbury says, “ They have produced 
—I speak seriously—some of the most beautiful fruits that ever grew upon 
the tree of life. I believe that from the teachers and from the children, 
though many are now gone to their rest, might have been, and might still 
be selected some of the most pure, simple, affectionate specimens of Chris,- 
tianity the world ever saw.” Growing out of the ragged school is an insti¬ 
tution of most interesting character, called “a place for repentance.” It 
had its origin in the efforts of a young man, a Mr. Nash, to reform two of 
his pupils. They said they wished to be honest, but had nothing to eat, 
and must steal to live. Though poor himself, he invited them to his 
humble abode, and shared with them his livirfg. Other pupils, hearing of 
this, desired to join with them, and become honest too. Soon he had six. 
Now, the honest scholars in the ragged school, seeing what was going on, 
of their own accord began to share their bread with this little band, and to 
contribute their pennies. Gradually the number increased. Benevolent 
individuals noticed it, and supplies flowed in, until at last it has grown to 
be an establishment in which several hundreds are seeking reformation. 
To prevent imposition, a rigid probation is prescribed. Fourteen days the 
applicant feeds on bread and water, in solitary confinement, with the door 
unfastened, so that he can depart at any moment. If he goes through with 
that ordeal it is thought he really wants to be honest, and he is admitted a 
member. After sufficient time spent in the institution to form correct 
habits, assistance is given him to emigrate to some of the colonies, to com¬ 
mence life, as it were, anew. Lord Shaftesbury has taken a deep interest 
in this establishment; and among other affecting letters received from its 
colonists in Australia, is one to him, commencing, “ Kind Lord Ashley,” 
in which the boy says, “ I wish your lordship would send out more boys, 
and use your influence to convert all the prisons into ragged schools. As 
soon as I get a farm I shall call it after your name.” 

A little anecdote related by Mr. Nash shows the grateful feelings of the 
inmates of this institution. A number of them were very desirous to have 
a print of Lord Shaftesbury, to hang up in their sitting-room. Mr. Nash 
told them he knew of no way in which they could earn the money, except 
by giving up something from their daily allowance of food. This they 
cheerfully agreed to do. A benevolent gentleman offered to purchase the 
picture and present it to them; but they unanimously declined. They 
wanted it to be their own, they said, and they could not feel that it was so 
unless they did something for it themselves. 

Connected with the ragged school, also, is a movement for establishing 
what are called ragged churches—a system of simple, gratuitous religious 
instruction, which goes out to seek those who feel too poor and degraded to 
be willing to enter the churches. 

Another of the great movements in England is the institution of the 
Labourer’s Friend Society, under the patronage of the most distinguished 
personages. Its principal object has been the promotion of allotments of 
land in the country, to be cultivated by the peasantry after their day’s 
labour, thus adding to their day’s wages the produce of their fields and 
garden. It has been instrumental, first and last, of establishing nearly 
four hundred thousand of these allotments. It publishes, also, a monthly 
papei, called the Labourer’s Friend, in which all subjects relative to the 
elevation of the working classes receive a full discussion. 


schools, etc. 219 

In consequence of all these movements, tlie dwellings of tlie labouring 
classes throughout Great Britain are receiving much attention ; so that, if 
matters progress for a few years as they have clone, the cottages of the 
working people will be excelled by none in the world. 

Another great movement is the repeal of the corn laws, the benefit of 
which is too obvious to need comment. 

What has been doing for milliners and dressmakers, for the reform 
lodging houses, and for the supply of baths and washhouses, I have shown 
at length in former letters. I will add that the city of London has the 
services of one hundred and twenty city missionaries. 

There is a great multiplication of churches, and of clergymen to labour in 
the more populous districts. The Pastoral-Aid Society and the Scripture 
Heading Society are both extensive and fruitful labourers for the services of 
the mass of the people. 

There has also been a public liealtb act, by which towns and villages are 
to be drained and supplied with water. This has gone into operation in 
about oue hundred and sixty populous places with the most beneficial 
results. 

In fine, Lord Shaftesbury says, “ The best proof that the people are 
cared for, and that they know it, appeared in the year 1848. All Europe 
was convulsed. Kings were falling like rotten pears. We were as quiet 
aud happy in England as the President of the United States in his drawing 
room.” 

It is true, that all these efforts united could not radically relieve the 
distress of the working classes, were it not for the outlet furnished by 
emigration. But Australia has opened as a new world of hope upon 
England. And confirmatory of all other movements for the good of the 
working classes, come the benevolent efforts of Mrs. Chisholm and the 
colonizing society formed under her auspices. 

I will say, finally, that the aspect of the religious mind of England, as 
I have been called to meet it, is very encouraging in this respect; that it is 
humble, active, and practical. With all that has been done, they do not 
count themselves to have attained, or to be already perfect; and they 
evidently think and speak more of the work that yet remains to be done 
than of victories already achieved. Could you, my dear father, have been 
with me through the different religious circles it has been my privilege to 
enter, from the humble cotter’s fireside to the palace of the highest and 
noblest, your heart would share with mine a sincere joy in the thought that 
the Lord “has much people” in England. Called by different names, 
Churchman, Puseyite, Dissenter, Presbyterian, Independent, Quaker, dif¬ 
fering widely, sincerely, earnestly, I have still found among them all evidence 
of that true piety which consists in a humble and childlike spirit of obedience 
to God, aud a sincere desire to do good to man. It is comforting and en¬ 
couraging to know, that while there are many sects and opinions, there is, 
after all, but one Christianity. I sometimes think that it has been my 
peculiar lot to see the exhibition of more piety and loveliness of spirit iu 
the differing sects and ranks iu England than they can see in each other. 
And it lays in my mind a deep foundation of hope for that noble country. 
My belief is, that a regenerating process is going on in England ; a gradual 
advance in religion, of whicli contending parties themselves are not aware. 
Under various forms all are energizing together, I trust, under the guidance 



220 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


of a superior Spirit, who is gently moderating acerbities, removing pre¬ 
judices, inclining to conciliation and harmony, and preparing England to 
develope, from many outward forms, the one, pure, beautiful, invisible 
church of Christ. 


LETTER XXX. 

JEESENTATION AT SURREY CHAPEL.—HOUSE 0E PARLIAMENT.—MISS GREENEIELD’S 
SECOND CONCERT.—SIR JOHN MALCOLM.—THE CHARITY CHILDREN.— 

MRS. GASKELL.—THACEERAY. 

London, June 23. 

My dear Husband .— 

According to request I wi'.l endeavour to keep you informed of all our 
goings on after you left, up to the time of our departure for Paris. 

We have borne in mind your advice to hasten away to the continent. 
C. wrote, a day or two since, to Mrs. C. at Paris, to secure very private 
lodgings, and by no means let any one know that we were coming. She 
has replied, urging us to come to her house, and promising entire seclusion 
and rest. So, since you departed, we have been passing with a kind of 
comprehensive skip and jump over remaining engagements. And first, the 
evening after you left, came off the presentation of the inkstand by the 
ladies of Surrey Chapel. 

Our kind Mr. Sherman showed great taste as well as energy in the 
arrangements. The lecture room of the chapel was prettily adorned with 
flowers. Lord Shaftesbury was in the chair, and the Duchess of Argyle 
and the Marquis of Stafford were there. Miss Greenfield sang some songs, 
and there were speeches in which each speaker said all the obliging things 
he could think of to the rest. Rev. Mr. Binney complimented the nobility, 
and Lord Shaftesbury complimented the people, and all wnre but too kind 
in what they said to me—in fact, there was general good humour in the 
whole scene. 

The inkstand is a beautiful specimen of silverwork. It is eighteen inches 
long, with a group of silver figures on it, representing Religion with the 
Bible in her hand, giving liberty to the slave. The slave is a masterly 
piece of work. He stands with his hands clasped, looking up to heaven, 
wdiile a white man is knocking the shackles from his feet. But the 
prettiest part of the scene was the presentation of a gold pen, by a baud of 
beautiful children, one of whom made a very pretty speech. I called the 
little things to come and stand around me, and talked with them a few 
minutes, and this was all the speaking that fell to my share. Now this, 
really, was too kind of these ladies, and of our brotherly friend Mr. S., and 
I was quite touched with it ; especially as I have been able myself to do so 
very little, socially, for anybody’s pleasure. Mr. Sherman still has con¬ 
tinued to be as thoughtful and careful as a brother could be ; and his 
daughter, Mrs. B., I fear, has robbed her own family to give us the 
additional pleasure of her society. We rode out with her one day into the 
country, and saw her home and little family. Saturday morning we 
breakfasted at Stafford house. I wish you could have been there. All was 
as cool, and quiet, and still there, as in some retreat deep in the country. 
We went first into the duchess’s boudoir,—you remember,—where is that 
beautiful crayon sketch of Lady Constance. The duchess was dressed in 



House oe parliament. 


221 

pale blue. We talked with her some time, before any one came in, about 
Miss Greenfield. I showed her a simple note to her grace in which Miss 
G. tried to express her gratitude, and which she had sent to me to correct 
for her. The duchess said, ‘ ‘ 0, give it me ! it is a great deal better as it- 
is. I like it just as she wrote it.” 

People always like simplicity and truth better than finish. After enter¬ 
ing the breakfast room the Duke and Duchess of Argyle, and Lord Carlisle 
appeared, and soon after Lord Shaftesbury. We breakfasted in that 
beautiful green room which has the two statues, the Eve of Thorwaldsen 
and the Venus of Canova. The view of the gardens and trees from the 
window gave one a sense of seclusion and security, and made me forget that 
we were in great, crowded London. A pleasant talk we had. Among 
other things they proposed various inquiries respecting affairs in America, 
particularly as to the difference between Presbyterians and Congrega- 
tionalists, the influence of the Assembly’s Catechism, and the peculiarities 
of the other religious denominations. 

The Duke of Argyle, who is a Presbyterian, seemed to feel an interest in 
those points. He said it indicated great power in the Assembly’s Catechism 
that it could hold such ascendancy in such a free country. 

In the course of the conversation it was asked if there was really danger 
that the antislavery spirit of England would excite ill-feeling between the 
two countries. 

I said, were it possible that America were always to tolerate and defend 
slavery, this might be. But this would be self-destruction. It cannot, 
must not, will not be. We shall struggle, and shall overcome ; and when 
the victory has been gained we shall love England all the more for her noble 
stand in the conflict. As I said this I happened to turn to the duchess, 
and her beautiful face was lighted with such a strong, inspired, noble 
expression, as set its seal at once in my heart. 

Lord Carlisle is going to Constantinople to-morrow, or next day, to be 
gone perhaps a year. The eastern question is much talked of now, and the 
chances of war between Russia and Turkey. 

Lord Shaftesbury is now all-engaged upon the fete of the seven thousand 
charity children, which is to come off at St. Paul’s next Thursday. 

The Duchesses of Sutherland and Argyle were to have attended, but the 
queen has just come to town, and the first drawing room will be held on 
Thursday, so that they will be unable. His lordship had previously invited 
me, and this morning renewed the invitation. Our time to leave London is 
fixed for Friday; but, as I am told, there is no sight more peculiar and 
beautiful than this fete, and I think I can manage both to go there and be 
orvvard with my preparations. 

In the afternoon of this day I went with Lord Shaftesbury over the 
model lodging houses, which I have described very particularly in a letter 

to Mr. C. L. B. 

On Thursday, at five p.m., we drove to Stafford House, to go with her 
grace to the House of Parliament. What a magnificent building ! I say 
so, in contempt of all criticism. I hear that all sorts of things are said 
against it. For my part, I consider that no place is so vitterly hopeless as 
that of a modern architect intrusted with a great public building. It is not 
his fault that he is modern, but his misfortune. Things which in old 
buildings are sanctioned by time he may not attempt ; and if he strikes out 


222 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


neiv things, that is still worse. He is fair game for everybody's criticism. 
He builds too high for one, too low for another; is too ornate for this, too 
plain for that; he sacrifices utility to esthetics, or aesthetics to utility, and 
somebody is displeased either way. The duchess has been a sympathizing 
friend of the architect through this arduous ordeal. She took pleasure 
and pride in his work, and showed it to me as something in which she felt 
an almost personal interest. 

For my part, I freely confess that, view r ed as a national monument, it 
seems to me a grand one. What a splendid historic corridor is old West¬ 
minster Hall, with its ancient oaken roof! I seemed to see all that bril¬ 
liant scene when Burke spoke there amid the nobility, wealth, and fashion 
of all England, in the Warren Hastings trial. That speech always makes 
me shudder. I think there never was anything more powerful than its con¬ 
clusion. Then the corridor that is to be lined with the statues of the great 
men of England will be a noble affair. The statue of Hampden is grand. 
Will they leave out Cromwell ? There is less need of a monument to him, 
it is true, than to most of them. We went into the House of Lords. The 
Earl of Carlisle made a speech on the Cuban question, in the course of 
which he alluded very gracefully to a petition from certain ladies that Eng¬ 
land should enforce the treaties for the prevention of the slave trade there ; 
and spoke very feelingly on the reasons why woman should manifest a par¬ 
ticular interest for the oppressed. The Duke of Argyle and the Bishop of 
Oxford came over to the place where we were sitting. Her grace intimated 
to the bishop a desire to hear from him on the question, and in the course 
of a few moments after returning to his place, he arose and spoke. He has 
a fine voice, and speaks very elegantly. 

At last I saw Lord Aberdeen. He looks like some of our Presbyterian 
elders; a plain, grave old man, with a bald head, and dressed in black ; by 
the by, I believe I have heard that he is an elder in the National kirk; I am 
told he is a very good man. You don’t know how strangely and dreamily 
this House of Lords, as seen to-day, mixed itself up with my historic recol¬ 
lections of' by-gone days. It had a very sheltered, comfortable, parlour-like 
air. The lords, in their cushioned seats, seemed like men that had met, in 
a social way, to talk over public affairs; it was not at all that roomy, vast, 
declamatory national hall I had imagined. 

Then we went into the House of Commons. There is a kind of latticed 
gallery to which ladies are admitted—a charming little Oriental rookery. 
There we found the Duchess of Argyle and others. Lord Carlisle after¬ 
wards joined us, and we went all over the house, examining the frescoes, 
looking into closets, tea-rooms, libraries, smoking-rooms, committee-rooms, 
and all, till I was thoroughly initiated. The terrace that skirts the 
Thames is magnificent. I inquired if any but members might eujoy it. 
N o; it was only for statesmen; our short promenade there was, therefore, 
an act of grace. 

On the whole, when this Parliament House shall have gathered the dust 

of two hundred years—when Victoria’s reign is among the myths_future 

generations will then venerate this building as one of the rare creations of 
old masters, and declare that no modern structure can ever equal it. 

The next day, at three o’clock, I went to Miss Greenfield’s first public 
morning concert, a bill of which I send you. She comes out under the pa- 


BIB JOHN MALCOLM. 223 

tronage of all tlie great names, you observe. Lady Hatlierton was there, 
and the Duchess of Sutherland, with all her daughters. 

■Miss Greeniield did very well, and was heard with indulgence, though 
surrounded by artists who had enjoyed what she had not—a life’s training. 
I could not but think what a loss to art is the euslaving of a race which 
might produce so much musical talent. Had she had culture equal to her 
voice and ear, no singer of any country could have surpassed her. There 
could even be associations of poetry thrown around the dusky hue of her 
brow were it associated with the triumphs of art. 

After concert, the Duchess of S. invited Lady H. and myself to Stafford 
House. We took tea in the green library. Lady C. Campbell was there, 
and her Grace of Argyle. After tea I saw the Duchess of S. a little while 
alone in her boudoir, and took my leave then and there of one as good and 
true-hearted as beautiful and noble. 

The next day I lunched with Mrs. Malcolm, daughter-in-law of your 
favourite traveller, Sir John Malcolm, of Persian memory. You should 
have been there. The house is a cabinet of Persian curiosities. There was 
the original of the picture of the King of Persia in Ker Porter’s Travels. 
It was given to Sir John by the monarch himself. There were also two 
daggers which the king presented with his own hand. I think Sir John 
must somehow have mesmerized him. Then Captain M. showed me 
sketches of his father’s country house in the Himalaya Mountains; think 
of that! The Alps are commonplace; but a country seat in the Himalaya 
Mountains 'is something worth speaking of. There were two bricks from 
Babylon, and other curiosities innumerable. 

Mrs. M. went with me to call on Lady Carlisle. She spoke much of the 
beauty and worth of her character, and said that though educated in the 
gayest circles of court she had always preserved the same unworldly purity. 
Mrs. M. has visited Dunrobin and seen the Sutherland estates, and spoke 
much of the duke’s character as a landlord, and his efforts for the improve¬ 
ment of his tenantry. 

Lady Carlisle was very affectionate, and invited me to visit Castle Howard 
on my return to. England. 

Thursday I went with Lord Shaftesbury to see the charity children. 
What a sight! The whole central part of the cathedral v r as converted into 
an amphitheatre, and the children, with white caps, white handkerchiefs, 
and w r hite aprons, looked like a white flower-bed. The rustling, when they 
all rose up to prayer, was like the rise of a flock of doves, and when they 
chanted the church service, it -was the -warble of a thousand little brooks. 
As Spenser says— 

“The angelical, soft, trembling voices made 
Unto the instruments respondence meet.” 

During the course of the services, when any little one was overcome with 
sleep or fatigue, he -was carefully handed down, and conveyed in a man’s 
ai’ms to a refreshment-room. 

There was a sermon by the Bishop of Clxestei', very evangelical and prac¬ 
tical. On the vdiole, a more peculiar or more lovely scene I never saw. 
The elegant arches of St. Paul’s could have no more beautiful adornment 
than those immortal flowers. 

After service we lunched with a large pai’ty, with Mrs. Milman, at the 





224 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


deanery hard by. Mrs. Jameson was thei’e, and Mrs. Gaskell, authoress of 
Mary Barton and Itutli. She has a very lovely, gentle face, and looks 
capable of all the pathos that her writings show. 1 promised, her a visit 
when I go to Manchester. Thackeray was there, with his fine figure, and 
frank, cheerful bearing. He spoke in a noble and brotherly way of America, 
and seemed to have highly enjoyed his visit in our country. 

After this we made a farewell call at the lord mayor’s. We found the 
lady mayoress returned from the queen’s drawing-room. From her ac¬ 
counts 1 should judge the ceremonial rather fatiguing. Mrs. M. asked me 
yesterday if I had any curiosity to see one. I confessed I had not. Merely 
to see public people in public places, in the way of parade and ceremony, 
was never interesting to me. I have seen very little of ceremony or show 
in England. Well, now, I have brought you down to this time. I have 
omitted, however, that I went with Lady Hatherton to call on Mr. and 
Mrs. Dickens, and was sorry to find him too unwell to be able to see us. 
Mrs. Dickens, who was busy in attending him, also excused herself, and 
we saw his sister. 

To-morrow we go—go to quiet, to obscurity, to peace; to Paris, to 
Switzerland : there we shall find the loneliest glen, and, as the Bible says, 
“fall on sleep.” For our adventures on the way, meanwhile, I refer you 
to C.’s journal. 


JOURNAL. 

LONDON TO PARIS.—CIUTRCH MUSIC.—THE SHOPS.—THE LOUVRE.—MUSIC AT THE 
TUILERIES.—A SALON.—VERSAILLES.—M, BELLOC. 

June 4, 1853. Bade adieu with regret to dear Surrey parsonage, and 
drove to the Great South-Western Station House. “Paris?” said an 
official at our cab-door. “Paris, by Folkestone and Boulogne,” was our 
answer. And in a few moments, without any inconvenience, we were off. 
Reached Folkestone at nine, and enjoyed a smooth passage across the 
dreaded channel. The steward’s bowls were paraded in vain. At 
Boulogne come the long-feared and abhorred ordeal of passports and police. 
It was nothing. We slipped through quite easily. A narrow ladder, the 
quay, gens-d’armes, a hall, a crowd, three whiskers, a glance at the pass¬ 
port, the unbuckling of a bundle, voila tout. The moment we issued 
forth, however, upon the quay again, there was a discharge of forty voices 
shouting in French. For a moment, completely stunned, I forgot where we 
were, which way going, and what we wanted. Up jumped a lively little 
gamin. 

“ Monsieur, veut alter a Paris , vilest cepasT* “Going to Paris, are 
you not, sir?” 

“ Oui .” 

“ Is monsieur’s baggage registered?” 

< < y 

JL vw» 

“ Does monsieur wish to go to the station house ?” 

“ Can one find anything there to eat?” 

“ Yes, just as at a hotel.” 

We yielded at discretion, and garfon took possession of us. 



Paris* 225 

“English?” said garfon, as we enjoyed the pleasant walk on the sunny 
quay. 

“No. American,” we replied. 

“Ah!” (his face brightening up, and speaking confidentially,) “you 
have a republic there.” 

We gave the lad a franc, dined, and were off for Paris. The ride was 
delightful. Cars seating eight; clean, soft-cushioned, nice. The face of 
the country, though not striking, was pleasing. There were many poplars, 
with their silvery shafts, and a mingling of trees of various kinds. The 
foliage has an airy grace—a certain spirituelle expression—as if the trees 
knew they were growing in la belle France , and must be refined. Then 
the air is so different from the fog and smoke of London. There is more 
oxygen in the atmosphere. A pall is lifted. We are led out into sunshine. 
Fields are red with a scarlet white-edged poppy, or blue with a flower like 
larkspur. Wheat fields half covered with this unthrifty beauty ! But alas! 
the elasticity is in Nature’s works only. The works of man breathe over 
us a dismal, sepulchral, stand-still feeling. The villages have the night¬ 
mare, and men wear wooden shoes. The day’s ride, however, was 
memorable with novelty; and when we saw Mont Martre, and its moth-- 
like windmills, telling us we were coming to Paris, it was almost witli 
regret at the swiftness of the hours. We left the cars, and flowed with the 
tide into the Salle d’Attente, to wait till the baggage was sorted. Then 
came the famous ceremony of unlocking. The officer took my carpet bag 
first, and poked his hand down deep in one end. 

“What is this?” 

“ That is my collar box.” 

“ Ah, fa.” And he put it back hastily, and felt of my travelling gown, 
“What is this?” 

“Only a wrapping gown.” 

“Ah, fa.” After fumbling a little more, he took sister H.’s bag, gave 
a dive here, a poke there, and a kind of pi’omiscuous rake with his five 
fingers, and turned to the trunk. There he seemed somewhat dubious. 
Eying the fine silk and lace dresses,—first one, then the other,—“Ah, 
ah !” said he, and snuffed a little. Then he peeped under this corner, 
and cocked his eye under that corner; then, all at once, plunged his arm 
down at one end of the trunk, and brought up a little square box. ‘ ‘ What’s 
that?” said he. H. unrolled and was about to open it, when suddenly he 
seemed to be seized with an emotion of confidence. “Non, non said he, 
frankly, and rolled it up, shoved it back, stuffed the things down, smoothed 
all over, signed my ticket, and passed on. We locked up, gave the baggage 
to portei’s, and called a fiaci*e. As we left the station, two ladies met us. 

“ Is thei*e any one here expecting to see Mrs. C. ?” said one of them. 

“Yes, madam,” said I, “we do.” 

“ God bless you,” said she, fervently, and seized me by the hand. It 
was Mrs. C. and her sister. I gave H. into their possession. 

Our troubles wei'e over. We were at home. We rode through sti’eets 
whose names were familiar, crossed the Cari'ousel, passed the Seine, and 
stopped before an ancient mansion in the Eue de Vemeuil, belonging to M. 
).e Marquis de Brige. This Faubourg St. Gennain is the part of Paris 
where the ancient nobility lived, and the houses exhibit marks of former 
splendour. The marquis is one of those chivalrous legitimists who uphold 


22(3 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

the claims of Ilcnri V. He lives in the country, and rents this hotel. 
Mrs. C. occupies the suite of rooms on the lower floor. W e entered by & 
ponderous old gateway, opened by the concierge , passed through a large 
paved quadrangle, traversed a short hall, and found ourselves in a large, 
cheerful parlour, looking out into a small flower garden. There was no 
carpet, but what is called here a parquet floor, or mosaic of oak blocks, 
waxed and highly polished. The sofas and chairs were covered with a light 
chintz, and the whole air of the apartment shady and cool as a grotto. A 
jardiniere filled with flowers stood in the centre of the room, and around it 
a group of living flowei's—mother, sisters, and daughters—scarcely less 
beautiful. In five minutes we were at home. French life is diflerent from 
any other. Elsewhere you do as the world pleases; here you do as you 
please yourself. My spirits always rise when I get among the French. 

Sabbath, Juno 5. Headache all the forenoon. In the afternoon we 
walked to the Madeleine, and heard a sermon on charity; listened to the 
chanting, and gazed at the fantastic ceremonial of the altar. I had anti¬ 
cipated so much from Henry’s description of the organs, that I was disap¬ 
pointed. The music was fine; but our ideal had outstripped the real. The 
strangest part of the performance was the censer swinging at the altar. It 
was done in certain parts of the chant, with rhythmic sweep, and glitter, 
and vapour wreath, that produced a striking effect. There was an immense 
audience—quiet, orderly, and to all appearance devout. This was the first 
Romish service I ever attended. It ought to be impressive here, if any¬ 
where. Yet I cannot say I was moved by it Rome-ward. Indeed, I 
felt a kind of Puritan tremor of conscience at witnessing such a theatrical 
pageant on the Sabbath. We soon saw, however, as we walked home, 
across the gardens of the Tuileries, that there is no Sabbath in Paris, 
according to our ideas of the day. 

Monday, June 6. This day was consecrated to knick-knacks. Accom¬ 
panied by Mrs. C., whom years of residence have converted into a perfect 
Parisicnne , we visited shop after shop, and store after store. The polite¬ 
ness of the shopkeepers is inexhaustible. I felt quite ashamed to spend a 
half-hour looking at everything, and then depart without buying ; but the 
civil Frenchman bowed, and smiled, and thanked us for coming. 

In the evening, we rode to L’Arc de Triomplie d’Etoile, an immense pile 
of massive masonry, from the top of which we enjoyed a brilliant panorama. 
Paris was beneath us, from the Louvre to the Bois de Boulogne, with its 
gardens, and moving myriads; its sports, and games, and lighthearted 
mirth—a vast Vanity Fair, blazing in the sunlight. A deep and strangely- 
blended impression of sadness and gaiety sunk into our hearts as we gazed. 
All is vivacity, gracefulness, and sparkle, to the eye; but ah, what fires 
are smouldering below ! Are not all these vines rooted in the lava and 
ashes-of the volcano side? 

Tuesday, June 7. A la Louvre! But first the ladies must “shop” a 
little. I sit by the counter and watch the pretty Parisian shopocracy. A 
lady presides at the desk. Trim little grisettes serve the customers so 
deftly, that we wonder why awkward men should ever attempt to do such 
things. Nay, they are so civil, so evidently disinterested and solicitous for 
your welfare, that to buy is the most natural thing imaginable. 

But to the Louvre ! Provided with catalogues, I abandoned the ladies, 
and strolled along to take a kind of cream-skimming look at the whole. I 



TTTE LOUVUE. 


227 


vas highly elated with one thing. There were three Madonnas with dark 
hair and eyes: one by Murillo, another by Carracci, and another by Guido. It 
showed that painters were not so utterly hopeless as a class, and given 
over by common sense to blindness of mind, as I had supposed. 

H. begins to recant her heresy in regard to Rubens. Here we find his 
largest pieces. Here we find the real oriyinah of several real originals we 
saw in English galleries. It seems as though only upon a picture as 
large as the side of a parlour could his exuberant genius find scope fully to 
lay itself out. 

When I met II. at last—after finishing the survey— her cheek was 
flushed, and her eye seemed to swim. “Well, II.,” said I, “have you 
drank deep enough this time ?” 

“Yes,” said she, “I have been aafisted, for the first time.” 

Wednesday, June 8. A day on foot in Paris. Surrendered II. to the 
care of our fair hostess. Attempted to hire a boat, at one of the great 
bathing establishments, for a pull on the Seine. Why not on the Seine, as 
well as on the Thames ' But the old Triton demurred. The tide marched 
too strong— li Il raarche trop fort” Onward, then, along the quays; 
visiting the curious old book-stalls, picture-stands^ and flower-markets. 
Lean over the parapet, and gaze upon this modern Euphrates, rushing 
between solid walls of masonry through the heart of another Babylon. 
The river is the only thing not old. These waters are as turbid, tumul¬ 
tuous, unbridled, as when forests covered all these banks—fit symbol of 
peoples and nations in their mad career, generation after generation. Insti¬ 
tutions, like hewn granite, may wall them in, and vast arches span their 
flow, and hierarchies domineer over the tide; but the scorning waters burst 
into life unchangeable, and sweep impetuous through the heart of Vanity 
Fair, and dash out again into the future, the same grand, ungovernable 
Euphrates stream. I do not wonder Egypt adored her Nile, and Rome her 
Tiber. Surely, the life artery of Paris is this Seine beneath my feet! 
And there is no scene like this, as I gaze upward and downward, compre¬ 
hending, in a glance, the immense panorama of art and architecture—life, 
motion, enterprise, pleasure, pomp, and power. Beautiful Paris! What 
city in the world can compare with thee ? 

And is it not chiefly because, either by accident or by instinctive good 
taste, her treasures of beauty and art axe so disposed along the Seine as to 
be visible at a glance to the best effect ‘ As the instinct of the true Pari- 
sienne teaches her the mystery of setting off the graces of her person by the 
fascinations of dress, so the instinct of the nation to set off the city by the 
fascinations of architecture and embellishment. Hence a chief superiority 
of Paris to London. The Seine is straight, and its banks are laid out in 
broad terraces on either side, called quati, lined with her stateliest palaces 
and gardens. The Thames forum an elbow, and is enveloped in dense smoke 
and fog. London lowers; the Seine sparkles ; London shuts down upon the 
Thames, and there is no point of view for the whole river panorama. Paris 
rises arnphitheatrically, on either side the Seine, and the eye from the Pont 
d’Austerlitz seems to fly through the immense reach like an a; row, casting 
its shadow on everything of beauty or grandeur Paris possesses. 

Rapidly now I sped onward, paying brief visits to the Palais de Justice, 
the Hotel de Yille, and spending a cool half hour in Noire Lame. I love 
to sit in these majestic fanes, abstracting them from the superstition which 

$2 


228 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


does but desecrate them, and gaze upward to their lofty, vaulted arches, to 
drink in the impression of architectural sublimity, which I can neither 
analyze nor express. Cathedrals do not seem to me to have been built. 
They seem, rather, stupendous growths of nature, like crystals, or cl ill's of 
basalt. There is little ornament here. That roof looks plain and bare; 
yet I feel that the air is dense with sublimity. Onward I sped, crossing a 
bridge by the Hotel I)ieu, and, leaving the river, plunged into narrow 
streets. Explored a quadrangular market; surveyed the old church of St. 
Genevieve, and the new—now the Pantheon; went onward to the Jardin 
des Plantes, and explored its tropical bowers. Many things remind me 
to-day of New Orleans, and its levee, its Mississippi, its cathedral, and the 
luxuriant vegetation of the gulf. In fact, I seem to be walking in my 
sleep in a kind of glorified New Orleans, all the while. Yet I return to 
the gardens of the Tuileries and the Place Yendome, and in the shadow of 
Napoleon’s Column the illusion vanishes. Hundreds of battles look down 
upon me from their blazonry. 

In the evening I rested from the day’s fatigue by an hour in the garden of 
the Palais Royal. I sat by one of the little tables, and called for an 
ice. There were hundreds of ladies and gentlemen eating ices, drinking 
wine, reading the papers, smoking, chatting; scores of pretty children were 
frolicking and enjoying the balmy evening. Here six or eight midgets were 
jumping the rope, while papa and mamma swung it for them. Pretty little 
things, with their flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, how they did seem to 
enjoy themselves ! What parent was ever far from home that did not espy 
in every group of children his own little ones—his Mary or his Nelly, his 
Henry or Charley ? So it was with me. There was a ring of twenty or 
thirty singing and dancing, with a smaller ring in the centre, while old folks 
and boys stood outside. But I heard not a single oath, nor saw a rough or 
rude action, during the whole time I was there. The boys standing by 
looked on quietly, like young gentlemen. The best finale of such a toil¬ 
some day of sightseeing was a warm bath in the Rue du Bac, for the trifling 
sum of fifteen sous. The cheapness and convenience of bathing here is a great 
recommendation of Paris life. They will bring you a hot bath at your 
house for twenty-five cents, and that without bustle or disorder. And 
nothing so effectually as an evening bath, as my experience testifies, cures 
fatigue and propitiates to dreamless slumber. 

Thursday, Jxine 9.—At the Louvre. Studied three statues half an hour 
each—the Venus Victrix, Polyhymnia, and Gladiateur Combattant. The 
first is mutilated; but if disarmed she conquers all hearts, what would 
she achieve in full panoply ? As to the Gladiator, I noted as follows on 
my catalogue:—A pugilist; antique, brown with age; attitude, leaning 
forward; left hand raised on guard, right hand thrown out back, ready to 
strike a side blow; right leg bent; straight line from the head to the toe 
of left foot; muscles and veins most vividly revealed in intense develop¬ 
ment ; a wonderful petrifaction, as if he had been smitten to stone at the 
instant of striking. 

Here are antique mosaics, in which coloured stones seem liquefied, 
realizing the most beautiful effects of painting—quadrigae, warriors, arms, 
armour, vases, streams, all lifelike. Ascending to the hall of French 
paintings, I spent an hour in studying one picture—La Meduse, by 
Gerictiuit. It is a shipwrecked crew upon a raft in mid ocean. I gazed 



THE TUILER1E9. 


229 


until all surrounding objects disappeared, and I was alone upon the wide 
Atlantic. Those transparent emerald waves are no fiction; they leap 
madly, hungering for their prey. That distended sail is filled with the 
lurid air. That dead man’s foot hangs off in the seething brine a stark 
reality. What a fixed gaze of despair in that father’s stony eye ! What 
a group of deathly living ones around that frail mast, while one with 
intense eagerness flutters a signal to some far-descried bark 1 Coleridge’s 
Ancient Mariner has no colours more fearfully faithful to his theme. 
Heaven pities them not. Ocean is all in uproar against them. And there 
is no voice that can summon the distant, flying sail! So France appeared 
to that prophet painter’s eye, in the subsiding tempests of the revolution. 
So men’s hearts failed them for fear, and the dead lay stark and stiff 
among the living, amid the sea and the waves roaring; and so mute signals 
of distress were hung out in the lurid sky to nations afar. 

For my part, I remain a heretic. Give to these French pictures the 
mellowing effects of age, impregnating not merely the picture, but the eye 
that gazes on it, with its subtle quality; let them be gazed at through the 
haze of two hundred years, and they will—or I cannot see why they will 
not—rival the productions of any past age. I do not believe that a more 
powerful piece ever was painted than yon raft by Gericault, nor any more 
beautiful than several in the Luxembourg ; the “ Decadence de Rome,” for 
example, exhibiting the revels of the Romans during the decline of the 
empire. Let this Decadence unroll before the eyes of men the cause, that 
wreck by Gericault symbolize the effect , in the great career of nations, and 
the two are sublimely matched. 

After visiting the Luxembourg, I resorted to the gardens of the Tuileries. 
The thermometer was at about eighty degrees in the shade. From the 
number of people assembled, one would have thought, if it had been in 
the United States, that some great mass convention was coming off. Under 
the impenetrable screen of the trees, in the dark, cool, refreshing shade, 
arc thousands of chairs, for which one pays two cents a piece. Whole families 
come, locking up their door, bringing the baby, work, dinner, or lunch, 
take a certain number of chairs, and spend the day. As far as eye can 
reach, you see a multitude seated, as if in church, with other multitudes 
moving to and fro, while boys and girls without number are frolicking, 
racing, playing ball, driving hoop, &c., but contriving to do it without 
making a hideous racket. How French children are taught to play and 
enjoy themselves without disturbing everybody else, is a mystery. “ C'est 
gentU” seems to be a talismanic spell; and “ Ce n'est pas gentil fa” is 
sufficient to check every rising irregularity. 0 that some savant would 
write a book and tell us how it is done ! I gazed for half an hour on the 
spectacle. A more charming sight my eyes never beheld. There were 
greyheaded old men, and women, and invalids; and there were beautiful 
demoiselles working worsted, embroidery, sewing; men reading papers; 
and, in fact, people doing everything they would do in their own parlours. 
And all were graceful, kind, and obliging; not a word nor an act of im¬ 
politeness or indecency. No wonder the French adore Paris, thought I; in 
no other city in the world is a scene like this possible ! No wonder that 
their hearts die within them at thoughts of exile in the fens of 
Cayenne ! 

But under all this there lie, as under the cultivated crust of this fair 


230 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


■world, deep abysses of soul, wliere volcanic masses of molten lava surge 
and shake the tremulous earth. In the gay and hustling Boulevards, a 
friend, an old resident of Paris, pointed out to me, as we rode, the bullet 
marks that scarred the houses—significant tokens of what seems, but is 
not, forgotten. 

At sunset a military band of about seventy performers began playing in 
front of the Tuileries. They formed an immense circle, the leader in the 
centre. He played the octave flute, which also served as a baton for 
marking time. The music was characterised by delicacy, precision, sup¬ 
pression, and subjugation of rebellious material. 

I imagined a congress of horns, clarionets, trumpets, &c., conversing in 
low tones on some important theme; nay, rather a conspiracy of instru¬ 
ments, mourning between whiles their subjugation, and ever and anon 
breaking out in a fierce emeute, then repressed, hushed, dying away; as if 
they had heard of Baron Munchausen’s frozen horn, and had conceived the 
idea of yielding their harmonies without touch of human lips, yet were 
sighing and sobbing at their impotence. Perhaps I detected the pulses of 
a nation’s palpitating heart, throbbing for liberty, but trodden down, and 
sobbing in despair. 

In the evening Mrs. C. had her salon , a fashion of receiving one’s friends 
on a particular night, that one wishes could be transplanted to American soil. 

No invitations are given. It is simply understood that on such an 
evening, the season through, a lady receivesher friends. All come that please, 
without ceremony. A little table is set out with tea and a plate of cake. 
Behind it presides some fairy Emma or Elizabeth, dispensing tea and talk, 
bonbons and bon-mots, with equal grace. The guests enter, chat, walk 
about, spend as much time, or as little, as they choose, and retire. They 
come when they please, and go when they please, and there is no notice 
taken of entree or exit, no time wasted in formal greetings and leave 
takings. 

Up to this hour we had conversed little in French. One is naturally 
diffident at first; for if one musters courage to commence a conversation 
with propriety, the problem is how to escape a Scylla in the second, and a 
Charybdis in the third sentence. Said one of our fair entertainers, “ When. 
I first began, I would think of some sentence till I could say it without 
stopping, and courageously deliver myself to some guest or acquaintance.” 
But it was like pulling the string of a shower-bath. Delighted at my cor¬ 
rect sentence, and supposing me au fait , they poured upon me such a 
deluge of French that I held my breath in dismay. Considering, however, 
that nothing is to be gained by half-way measures, I resolved upon a despe¬ 
rate game. Launching in, I talked away right and left, up hill and down, 
—jumping over genders, cases, nouns, and adjectives, floundering through 
swamps and morasses, in a perfect steeple chase of words. Thanks to the 
proverbial politeness of my friends, I came off covered with glory ; the more 
mistakes I made the more complacent they grew. 

Nothing can surpass the ease, facility, and genial freedom of these soirees. 
Conceive of our excellent professor of Arabic and Sanscrit, Count M., fairly 
cornered by three wicked fairies, and laughing at their stories and swift 
witticisms till the tears roll down his cheeks. Behold yonder tall and scarred 
veteran, an old soldier of Napoleon, capitulating now before the witchery 


VERSAILLES, 


231 

of genius and wit. Here tlie noble Eussian exile forgets his sorrows in 
those smiles that, unlike the aurora, warm while they dazzle. And our 
celebrated composer is discomposed easily by alert and nimble-footed mis¬ 
chief. And our professor of Greek and Hebrew roots is rooted to the 
ground with astonishment at finding himself put through all the moods and 
tenses of fun in a twinkling. Ah, culpable sirens, if the pangs ye have 
inflicted were reckoned up unto you—the heart aches and side aches—how 
could ye repose o’ nights ? 

Saturday, June 11. Versailles ! When I have written that one word I 
have said all. I ought to stop. Description is out of the question. Describe 
nine miles of painting ? Describe visions of splendour and gorgeousness 
that cannot be examined in months ! Suffice it to say that we walked from 
hall to hall, until there was no more soul left within us. Then, late in the 
afternoon we drove away, about three miles, to the villa of M. Belloc, direc- 
texir de VEcole Imperiale de Dessein. Madame Belloc has produced, assisted 
by her friend, Mademoiselle Montgolfier, the best French translation of (Jncle 
Tom’s Cabin. At this little family party we enjoyed ourselves exceedingly, 
in the heart of genuine domestic life. Two beautiful married daughters were 
there, with their husbands, and the household seemed complete. Madame B. 
speaks English well; and thus, with our limited French, we got on de¬ 
lightfully together. I soon discovered that I had been sinning against all 
law in admiring anything at Versailles. They were all bad paintings. 
There might be one or two good paintings at the Luxembourg, and one or 
two good modern paintings at the Louvre—the Meduse, by Gericault, for 
example. (How I rejoiced that I had admired it!) But all the rest of the 
modern paintings M. Belloc declared, with an inimitable shrug, are poor 
paintings. There is nothing safely admirable, I find, but the old masters* 
All those battles of all famous French generals, from Charles Martel to 
Napoleon, and the battles in Algiers, by Horace Vernet, are wholly to be 
snuffed at. In painting, as in theology, age is the criterion of merit. Yet 
Vernet’s paintings, though decried by M. le Directeur, I admired, and told 
him so. Said I, in French as lawless as the sentiment, “Monsieur, I do 
not know the rules of painting, nor whether the picture is according to 
them or net; I only know that I like it.” 

But who shall describe the social charms of our dinner? All wedged 
togother, as we were, in the snuggest little pigeon-hole of a dining-room, 
pretty little chattering children and all, whom papa held upon his knee 
and fed with Bonbons, all the while impressing upon them the absolute neces¬ 
sity of their leaving the table ! There the salad was mixed by acclamation, 
each member of the party adding a word of advice, and each gaily laughing at 
the advice of the other. There a gay, red lobster was pulled in pieces among 
us, with infinite gout; and Madame Belloc pathetically expressed her fears 
that we did not like French cooking. She might have saved herself the 
trouble ; for we take to it -as naturally as ducks take to the water. And 
then, when we returned to the parlour, we resolved ourselves into a com¬ 
mittee of the whole on coffee, which was concocted in a trim little hj r dro- 
static engine of latest modern invention, before the faces of all. And 
so we right merrily spent the evening. PI. discussed poetry and art with 
our kind hosts to her heart’s content, and at a late hour we drove to the 
railroad, and returned to Paris. 


232 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


LETTER XXXI. 

THE LOUVBE—THE VENUS HE MIEON. 

Mr hear L.:— 

At last I have come into dreamland; into the lotos-eater’s paradise; 
into the land where it is always afternoon. I am released from care ; I am 
unknown, unknowing; I live in a house whose arrangements seem to me 
strange, old, and dreamy. In the heart of a great city 1 am as still as il in a 
convent; in the burning heats of summer our rooms are shadowy and cool 
as a cave. My time is all my own. I may at will lie on a sofa, and 
dreamily watch the play of the leaves and flowers, in the little garden into 
which my room opens; or I may go into the parlour adjoining, whence I 
hear the quick voices of my beautiful and vivacious young friends. You 
ought to see these girls. Emma might look like a Madonna, wei’e it not 
for her wicked wit; and as to Anna and Lizzie, as they glance by me, now 
and then, I seem to think them a kind of sprite, or elf, made to inhabit 
shady old houses, just as twinkling harebells grow in old castles; and then 
the gracious mamma, who speaks French, or English, like a stream of 
silver—is she not, after all, the fairest of any of them ? And there is 
Caroline, piquant, racy, full of conversation—sharp as a quartz crystal: 
how I like to hear her talk ! These people know Paris, as we say in Ame¬ 
rica, “like a book.” They have studied it aesthetically, historically, 
socially. They have studied French people and French literature,—and 
studied it with enthusiasm, as people ever should, who w'ould truly under¬ 
stand. They are all kindness to me. Whenever I wish to see anything, I 
have only to speak; or to know, I have only to ask. At breakfast every 
morning we compare notes, and make up our list of wants. My first, of 
course, was the Louvre. It is close by us. Think of it. To one who has 
starved all a life, in vain imaginings of what art might be, to know 
that you are within a stone’s throw of a museum full of its miracles, Greek, 
Assyrian, Egyptian, Roman sculptors and modern painting, all there ! 

I scarcely consider myself to have seen anything of art in England. The 
calls of the living world were so various and exigeant, I had so little leisure 
for reflection, that although I saw many paintings, I could not study them; 
and many times I saw them in a state of the nervous system too jaded ami 
depressed to receive the full force of the impression. A day or two before I 
left, I visited the National Gallery, and made a rapid survey of its contents. 
There were two of Turner’s master-pieces there, which he presented on the 
significant condition that they should hang side by side with their two finest 
Claudes. I thought them all four fine pictures, but I liked the Turners 
best. Yet I did not think any of them fine enough to form an absolute 
limit to human improvement. But, till I had been in Paris a day or two, 
perfectly secluded, at full liberty to think and rest, I did not feel that my 
time for examining art had really come. 

It was, then, with a thrill almost of awe that I approached the Louvre. 
Here, perhaps, said I to myself, I shall answer, fully, the question that 
has long wrought within my soul—What is art ? and what can it do 1 Here, 
perhaps, these yearnings for the ideal will meet their satisfaction. The 
ascent to the picture gallery tpnds to produce a flutter of excitement and 
expectation. Magnificent staircases, dim perspectives of frescoes and 








THE LOUVRE. 


233 


carvings, the glorious Hall of Apollo, rooms with mosaic pavements, 
antique vases, countless spoils of art, dazzle the eye of the neophyte, and 
prepare the mind for some grand enchantment. Then opens on one the 
grand hall of paintings arranged by schools, the works of each artist by 
themselves, a wilderness of gorgeous growths. 

I first walked through the whole, otfering my mind up aimlessly to see if 
there were any picture there great and glorious enough to seize and control 
my whole being, and answer, at once, the cravings of the poetic and artistic 
element. For any such I looked in vain. I saw a thousand beauties, as 
also a thousand enormities, but nothing of that overwhelming, subduing 
nature which I had conceived. Most of the men there had painted with 
di’y eyes and cool hearts, thinking only of the mixing of their colours and 
the jugglery of their art, thinking little of heroism, faith, love, or immor¬ 
tality. Yet when I had resigned this longing—when I was sure I should 
not meet there what I sought, then I began to enjoy very heartily what 
there was. 

In the first place, I now saw Claudes worthy of the reputation he bore. 
Three or four of these were studied with great delight; the delight one feels 
who, conscientiously bound to be delighted, suddenly comes into a situation 
to be so. I saw now those atmospheric traits, those reproductions of the 
mysteries of air, and of light, which are called so wonderful, and for which 
all admire Claude, but for which so few admire him who made Claude, and 
who every day creates around us, in the commonest scenes, effects far more 
beautiful. How much, even now, my admiration of Claude was genuine, I 
cannot say. How can we ever be sure on this point, when we admire what 
has prestige and sanction, not to admire which is an argument against 
ourselves ? Certainly, however, I did feel great delight in some of these 
works. 

One of my favourites was Rembrandt. I always did admire the gorgeous 
and solemn mysteries of his colouring. Rembrandt is like Hawthorne. He 
chooses simple and every-day objects, and so arranges light and shadow as 
to give them a sombi’e richness and a mysterious gloom. The House of 
Seven Gables is a succession of Rembrandt pictures, done in words instead 
of oils. Now, this pleases us, because our life really is a haunted one; the 
simplest thing in it is a mystery; the invisible world always lies round us 
like a shadow, and therefore this golden gleam of Rembrandt meets some¬ 
what in our consciousness to which it corresponds. There were no pictures 
in the gallery which I looked upon so long, and to which I returned so often, 
and with such growing pleasure, as these. I found in them, it not a com¬ 
manding, a drawing influence, a full satisfaction for one part of my nature. 

There were Raphaels there which still disappointed me, because from 
Raphael I asked and expected more. I wished to feel his hand on my soul 
with a stronger grasp; these were too passionless in their serenity, and 
almost effeminate in their tenderness. 

But Rubens, the great, joyous, f'ull-souled, all-powerful Rubens!—there 
lie was, full as ever of triumphant, abounding life; disgusting and pleasing; 
making me laugh and making me angry; defying me to dislike him; drag¬ 
ging me at his chariot wheels; in despite of my protests forcing me to con¬ 
fess that there was no other but he. 

This Medici gallery is a succession of gorgeous allegoric paintings, done 
at the instance of Mary of Medici, to celebrate the praise and glory of that 


234 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


family. I was predetermined not to like tliem, for two reasons: first, that 
I dislike allegorical subjects; and second, that I hate and despise that 
Medici family and all that belongs to them. So no sympathy with the 
subject blinded my eyes, and drew me gradually from all else in the hall 
to contemplate these. It was simply the love of power and of fertility that 
held me astonished, which seemed to express with nonchalant ease what 
other painters attain by laborious efforts. It occurred to me that other 
painters are famous for single heads, or figures, and that were the striking 
heads or figures with which these pictures abound to be parcelled out singly, 
any one of them would make a man’s reputation. Any animal of Rubens, 
alone, would make a man’s fortune in that department. His fruits and 
flowers are unrivalled for richness and abundance; his old men’s heads are 
wonderful; and when he chooses, which he does not often, he can even 
create a pretty woman. Generally speaking his women are his worst pro¬ 
ductions. It would seem that he had revolted with such fury from the 
meagre, pale, cadaverous outlines of womankind painted by his predecessors, 
the Van Eyks, whose women resembled potato-sprouts grown in a cellar, 
that he altogether overdid the matter in the opposite direction. His exu¬ 
berant soul abhors leanness as Nature abhors a vacuum; and hence all his 
women seem bursting their bodices with fulness, like overgrown carnations 
breaking out of their green calyxes. He gives you Yenuses with arms fit 
to wield the hammer of Vulcan; vigorous Graces whose dominion would be 
alarming were they indisposed to clemency. His weakness, in fact, his be¬ 
setting sin, is too truly described by Moses:—- 

“ But Jeslnmm waxed fat and lacked; 

Thou art waxen fat, thou art grown thick, 

Thou art covered with fatness.” 

Scornfully he is determined upon it; he will none of your scruples: his 
women shall be fat as he pleases, and you shall like him nevertheless. 

In his Medici gallery the fault appears less prominent than elsewhere. 
Many of the faces are portraits, and there are specimens among them of 
female beauty, so delicate as to demonstrate that it was not from any want 
of ability to represent the softer graces that he so often becomes hard and 
coarse. My friend, M. Belloc, made the remark that the genius of Rubens 
was somewhat restrained in these pictures, and chastened by the rigid rules 
of the French school, and hence in them he is more generally pleasing. 

I should compare Rubens to Shakspeare, for the wonderful variety and 
vital force of his artistic power. I know no other mind lie so nearly re¬ 
sembles. Like Shakspeare, lie forces you to accept and to forgive a thousand 
excesses, and uses his own faults as musicians use discords, only to enhance 
the perfection of harmony. There certainly is some use even in defects. A 
faultless style sends you to sleep. Defects rouse and excite the sensibility 
to seek and appreciate excellences. Some of Shakspeare’s finest passages 
explode all grammar and rhetoric like skyrockets—the thought blows the 
language to shivers. 

As to Murillo, there are two splendid specimens of liis style here, as ex¬ 
quisite as any I have seen; but I do not find reason to alter the -judgment I 
made from my first survey. 

Here is his celebrated picture of the Assumption of the Virgin, which we 
have seen circulated in print shops in America, but which appears of a 






THE LOUYRE. 


235 


widely different character in the painting. The Virgin is rising in a flood 
of amber light, surrounded by clouds and indistinct angel figures. She is 
looking upward with clasped hands, as in an ecstasy: the crescent moon is 
beneath her feet. The whole tone of the picture—the clouds, the drapery, 
her flowing hair—are pervaded with this amber tint, sublimated and 
spiritual. Do I, then, like it? No. Does it affect me? Not at all. Why 
so ? Because this is a subject requiring earnestness; yet, after all, there is 
no earnestness of religious feeling expressed. It is a surface picture, ex¬ 
quisitely painted—the feeling goes no deeper than the canvas. But how do 
I know Murillo has no earnestness in the religious idea of this piece ? How 
do I know, when reading Pope’s Messiah, that he was not in earnest—that 
he was only most exquisitely reproducing what others had thought? Does 
he not assume, in the most graceful way, the language of inspiration and 
holy rapture ? But, through it all, we feel the satisfied smirk of the artist, 
and the fine, sharp touch of his diamond file. What is done from a genuine, 
strong, inward emotion, whether in writing or painting, always mesmerizes 
the paper, or the canvas, and gives it a power which everybody must feel, 
though few know why. The reason why the Bible has been omnipotent, in 
all ages, has been because there were the emotions of God in it; and of 
paintings nothing is more remarkable than that some preserve in them such 
a degree of genuine vital force that one can never look on them with indif¬ 
ference ; while others, in which every condition of art seems to be met, 
inspire no strong emotion. 

Yet this picture is immensely popular. Hundreds stand enchanted before 
it, and declare it embodies their highest ideal of art and religion; and I 
suppose it does. But so it always is. The man who has exquisite gifts ot 
expression passes for more, popularly, than the man with great and grand 
ideas who utters but imperfectly. There are some pictures here by Cor¬ 
reggio—a sleeping Venus and Cupid—a marriage of the infant Jesus and St. 
Catherine. This Correggio is the poet of physical beauty. Light and 
shadow are his god. What he lives for is, to catch and reproduce flitting 
phases of these. The moral is nothing to him, and, in his own world, he 
does what lie seeks. He is a great popular favourite, since few look for 
more in a picture than exquisite beauty of form and colour. I, indeed, like 
him, so far as it is honestly understood between us that his sphere is to be 
earth, and not heaven ; were he to attempt, profanely, to represent heavenly 
things, I must rebel. I should as soon want Tom Moore to write me a 
prayer book. 

A large saloon is devoted to the masters of the French school. The works 
of no living artist are admitted. There are some large paintings by David, 
lie is my utter aversion. I see in him nothing but the driest imitation of 
the classics. It would be too much praise to call it reproduction. David 
had neither heart nor soul. How could he be an artist?—he who coolly 
took his portfolio to the guillotine to take lessons on the dying agonies of 
its victims—how could he ever paint anything to touch the heart ? 

In general, all French artists appear to me to have been very much in¬ 
jured by a wrong use of classic antiquity. Nothing could be more glorious 
and beautiful than the Grecian development; nothing more unlike it than 
the stale, wearisome, repetitious imitations of it in modern times. The 
Greek productions themselves have a living power to this day; but all 
imitations of them are cold and tiresome. These old Greeks made such 


230 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


beautiful tilings, because they did not imitate. That mysterious vitality 
which still imbues their remains, and which seems to enchant even the 
fragments of their marbles, is the mesmeric vitality of fresh, original con¬ 
ception. Art, built upon this, is just like what the shadow of a beautiful 
woman is to the woman. One gets tired in these galleries of the classic band, 
and the classic headdress, and the classic attitude, and the endless repeti¬ 
tion of the classic urn, and vase, and lamp, as if nothing else were ever to 
be made in the world except these things. 

x\gain : in regard to this whole French gallery, there is much of a cer¬ 
tain quality which I find it very difficult to describe in any one word—a 
dramatic smartness, a searching for striking and peculiar effects, which 
render the pictures very likely to please on first sight, and to weary on 
longer acquaintance. It seems to me to be the work of a race whose senses 
and perceptions of the outward have been cultivated more than the deep in * 
ward emotions. Few of the pictures seem to have been the result of strong 
and profound feeling, of habits of earnest and concentrated thought. There 
is an abundance of beautiful little phases of sentiment, pointedly expressed; 
there is a great deal of what one should call the picturesque of the morale; 
but few of its foundation ideas. I must except from these remarks the 
very strong and earnest painting of the Meduse, by Gericault, which C. 
has described. That seems to me to be the work of a man who had not seen 
human life and suffering merely on the outside, but had felt, in the very 
depths of his soul, the surging and earthquake of those mysteries of passion 
and suffering which underlie our whole existence in this world. To me it 
was a picture too mighty and too painful—whose power I confessed, but 
which I did not like to contemplate. 

On the whole, French painting is to me an exponent of the great diffi 
culty and danger of French life ; that passion for the outward and visible, 
which all their education, all the arangements of their social life, every¬ 
thing in their art and literature, tends continually to cultivate and increase. 
Hence they have become the leaders of the world in what I should call the 
minor artistics—all those little particulars which render life beautiful. 
Hence there are more pretty pictures, and popular lithographs, from France 
than from any other country in the world; but it produces very little of 
the deepest and highest style of art. 

In this connexion I may as well give you my Luxembourg experience, as 
it illustrates the same idea. I like Paul de la Roche, on the whole, 
although I think he lias something of the fault of which I speak. He 
has very great dramatic power; but it is more of the kind shown by 
Walter Scott than of the kind shown by Shakspeare. He can re-produce 
historical characters with great vividness and effect, and with enough 
knowledge of humanity to make the verisimilitude admirably strong ; 
but as to the deep knowledge with which Shakspeare searches the radical 
elements of the human soul, he has it not. His death of Queen Elizabeth 
is a strong Walter Scott picture ; so are his Execution of Strafford, and his 
Charles I., which I saw in England. 

As to Horace Yernet, I do not think he is like either Scott or Shakspeare. 
In him this French capability for rendering the outward is wrought to the 
highest point; and it is outwardness as pure from any touch of inspiration 
or sentiment as I ever remember to have seen. He is graphic to the utmost 
extreme. His horses and his men stand from the canvas to the astonish- 








TIIE IOUVEE. 


237 

ment of all beholders. All is vivacity, bustle, dazzle, and show. I think 
him as perfect, of his kind, as possible ; though it is a kind of art with 
which I do not sympathize. 

The picture of the Decadence de Rome indicates to my mind a painter 
who lias studied and understood the classical forms ; vitalizing them, by 
the reproductive force of his own mind, so as to give them the living 
power of new creations. In this picture is a most grand and melancholy 
moral lesson. The classical forms are evidently not introduced because 
they are classic, but in subservience to the expression of the moral. In 
the orgies of the sensualists here represented he gives all the grace 
and beauty of sensuality without its sensualizing effect. Nothing could 
be more exquisite than the introduction of the busts of the departed 
heroes of the old republic, looking down from their pedestals on the 
scene of debauchery below. It is a noble picture, which I wish was hung 
up in the capital of our nation to teach our haughty people that as pride, 
and fulness of bread, and laxness of principle brought down the old re¬ 
publics, so also ours may fall. Although the outward in this painting, and 
the classical, is wrought to as fine a point as in any French picture, it is 
so subordinate to the severity of the thought, that while it pleases it does 
not distract. 

But to return to the Louvre. The halls devoted to paintings, of which 
I have spoken, give you very little idea of the treasures of the institu¬ 
tion. Gallery after gallery is filled with Greek, Roman, Assyrian, and 
Egyptian sculptures, coins, vases, and antique remains of every descrip¬ 
tion. There is, also, an apartment in which I took a deep interest, 
containing the original sketches of ancient masters. Here one may see the 
pen and ink drawings of Claude, divided into squares to prepare them 
for the copyist. One compares here with interest the manners of the 
different artists in jotting down their ideas as they rose ; some by chalk, 
some by crayon, some by pencil, some by water colours, and some by 
a heterogeneous mixture of all. Mozart’s scrap bag of musical jottings 
could not have been more amusing. 

On the whole, cravings of mere ideality ave come nearer to meeting 
-satisfaction by some of these old mutilated remains of Greek sculpture 
than anything which I have met yet. In the paintings, even of the 
most celebrated masters, there are often things which are excessively 
annoying to me. I scarcely remember a master in whose works I have 
not found a hand, or foot, or face, or feature so distorted, or colouring 
at times so unnatural, or something so out of place and proportion in 
the picture as very seriously to mar the pleasure that I derived from 
it. In this statuary less is attempted, and all is more harmonious, 
and one’s ideas of proportion are never violated. 

My favourite among all these remains is a mutilated statue which 
they call the Yenus de Milon. This is a statue which is so called from 
having been dug up some years ago, piecemeal, in the island of Milos. 
There wa 3 quite a struggle for her between a French naval officer, the 
English, and the Turks. The French officer carried her off like another 
Helen, and she was given to Paris, old Louis Philippe being bridegroom 
by proxy. Savans refer the statue to the time of Phidias; and as this 
is a pleasant idea to me, I go a little further, and ascribe her to Phidias 
himself. 


238 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


The statue is much mutilated, both arms being gone, and part of the foot. 
But there is a majesty and grace in the head and face, a union of loveliness 
with intellectual and moral strength, beyond anything which I have ever 
seen. To me she might represent Milton’s glorious picture of unfallen, per¬ 
fect womanhood, in his Eve :— 

“ Yet -when I approach 
Her loveliness, so absolute she seems, 

And in herself complete, so well to know 
Her own, that what she wills to do or say 
Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best. 

All higher knowledge i-n her presence falls 
Degraded; wisdom, in discourse with her, 

Loses discountenanced, and like folly shows. 

Authority and reason on her wait, 

As one intended first, not after made * 

Occasionally ; and to consummate all, 

Greatness of mind, and nobleness, their seat 
Build in her, loveliest, and create an awe 
About her, like a guard angelic placed.’' 

Compared with this matchless Venus, that of Medici seems as inane and 
trifling as mere physical beauty always must by the side of beauty baptized, 
and made sacramental, as the symbol of that which alone is truly fair. 

With regard to the arrangements of the Louvre, they seem to me to be 
admirable. No nation has so perfectly the qualifications to care for, keep, 
and to show to best advantage a gallery of art as the French. 

During the heat of the outburst that expelled Louis Philippe from the 
throne, the Louvre was in some danger of destruction. Destructiveness is 
a native element of human nature, however repressed by society; and 
hence every great revolutionary movement always brings to the surface some 
who are for indiscriminate demolition. Moreover there is a strong tendency 
in the popular mind, where art and beauty have for many years been 
monopolized as the prerogative of a haughty aristocracy, to identify art and 
beauty with oppression ; this showed itself in England and Scotland in the 
general storm which •wrecked the priceless beauty of the ecclesiastical 
buildings. It was displaying itself in the same manner in Germany during 
the time of the reformation, and had not Luther been gifted with a nature 
as strongly aesthetic as progressive, would have wwought equal ruin there. 
So in the first burst of popular enthusiasm that expelled the monarchy, the 
cry was raised by some among the people, ‘ ‘ We shall never get rid of 
kings till we pull down the palaces;” just the echo of the old cry in Scot¬ 
land, “Pull down the nests, and the rooks will fly away.” The populace 
rushed into the splendid halls and saloons of the Louvre, and a general en¬ 
campment was made among the pictures. In this crisis a republican artist 
named Jeanron saved the Louvre; saved the people the regret that must 
have come over them had they perpetrated barbarisms, and Liberty the 
shame of having such outrages wrought in her name. Appointed by the 
provisional government to the oversight of the Louvre, and well known 
among the people as a republican, he boldly came to the rescue-. ‘ ‘ Am I 
not one of you?” he said. “ Am I not one of the people? These splendid 
works of art, are they not ours? Are they not the pride and glory of our 
country ? Shall we destroy our most glorious possession in the first hour of 
its passing into our hands ?” 

Moved by his eloquence the people decamped from the building, and left 


THE LOUYP.E. 


230 


it in Ills hands. Empowered to make all such arrangements for its renova¬ 
tion and embellishment as his artistic taste should desire, he conducted 
important repairs in the building, rearranged the halls, had the pictures 
carefully examined, cleaned when necessary, and distributed in schools with 
scientific accuracy. He had an apartment prepared where are displayed 
those first sketches by distinguished masters, which form one of the most 
instructive departments of the Louvre to a student of art. The govern¬ 
ment seconded all his measures by liberal supplies of money; and the 
Louvre is placed in its present perfect condition by the thoughtful and 
cherishing hand of the republic. 

These facts have been communicated to me from a perfectly reliable 
source. As an American and a republican, I cannot but take pleasure in 
them. I mention them because it is often supposed, from the destructive 
effects which attend the first advent of democratic principles where they 
have to explode their way into existence through masses of ancient rubbish, 
that popular liberty is unfavourable to art. It never could be so in France, 
because the whole body of the people are more thoroughly artistic in their 
tastes and feelings than in most countries. Thoy are almost slaves to the 
outwardly beautiful, taken captive by the eye and the ear, and only the 
long association of beauty with tyranny, with suffering, want, and degrada¬ 
tion to themselves, could ever have inspired any of them with even a 
momentary bitterness against it. 


JOURNAL— (Continued). 

IT. BELLOC’S STUDIO.— M. CHARPENTIER.— SALON MUSICALE.— PETER PARLEY.— 

JAP.DIN MABILLE.-REMAINS OP NINEVEH.-THE EMPEROR.—VERSAILLES.- 

SARTORV.—PERE LA CHAISE.—ADOLPHE MONOD.—PARIS TO LYONS.—DILIGENCE 
TO GENEVA.—MONT BLANC.—LAKE LEMAN. 

Monday, June 13.—"Went this morning with H. and Mrs. C. to the 
studio of M. Belloc. Found a general assembly of heads, arms, legs, and 
every species of nude and other humanity pertaining to a studio; also an 
agreeable jumble of old pictures and new, picture frames, canvas, brushes, 
boxes, unfinished sketches, easels, palettes, a sofa, some cushions, a chair 
or two, bottles, papers, a stove rusty and fireless, and all things most 
charmingly innocent of any profane “ clarin’ up times” whatsoever. 

The first question which M. Belloc proposed, with a genuine French air, 
was the question of “pose,” or position. It was concluded that as other 
pictures had taken H. looking at the spectator, this should take her 
looking away. M. Belloc remarked, that M. Charpentier said II. appeared 
always with the air of an observer—was always looking around on every¬ 
thing. Hence M. Belloc would take her “ en observatrice, mais pas cn 
curieuse ”—with the air of observation, but not of curiosity. 

At it lie went. I stood behind and enjoyed. Rapid creative sketching 
in chalk and charcoal. Then a chaos of colours and clouds, put on now 
with brushes, now with fingers. “ God began with chaos,” said he, 
quoting Pruclhon. “ We cannot expect to do better than God.” 

With intensest enjoyment I watched the chaotic clouds forming on the 
canvas round a certain nucleus, gradually resolving themselves into shape, 



240 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOEEIGN LANDS. 


and lightening up with tints and touches, until a head seemed slowly 
emerging from amidst the shadows. 

Meanwhile, an animated conversation was proceeding. M. Belloc, in his 
rich, glorious French, rolling out like music from an organ, discussed the 
problems of his art; while we ever and anon excited him by our specula¬ 
tions, our theories, our heresies. H. talked in English, and Mrs. C. 
translated, and I put in a French phrase sideways every now and then. 

By and byM. Charpentier came in, who is more voluble, more ore 
rotundo, grandiose, than M. Belloc. He began panegyrizing “ Uncle I 
Tomand this led to a discussion of the ground of its unprecedented 
success. In his thirty-five years’ experience as a bookseller, he had known , 
nothing like it. It surpassed all modern writers. At first he would not 
read it; his taste was for old masters of a century or two ago. “ Like M. 
Belloc in painting,” said I. At length he found his friend, M. Alfred de 
Musee, the first intelligence of the age, reading it. 

“ What, you too?” said he. 

“ Ah, ah!” said Be Musee; “ say nothing about this book ! There is 
nothing like it. This leaves us all behind—all, all, miles behind ! ” 

M. Belloc said the reason was because there was in it more genuine 
faith than in any book. And we branched off into florid eloquence 
touching paganism, Christianity, and art. 

“ Christianity,” M. Belloc said, “has ennobled man, but not made him 
happier. The Christian is not so happy as the old Greek. The old Greek 
mythology is full of images of joy, of lightness, and vivacity; nymphs and 
fauns, dryads and hamadryads, and all sportive creations. The arts that 
grow up out of Christianity are all tinged with sorrow.” 

“This is true in part,” replied H., “because the more you enlarge a 
person’s general capacity of feeling, and his quantity of being, the more 
you enlarge his capacity of suffering. A man can suffer more than an 
oyster. Christianity, by enlarging the scope of man’s heart, and dignify¬ 
ing his nature, has deepened his sorrow.” 

M. Belloc referred to the paintings of Eustache le Sceur, in the Louvre, 
in illustration of his idea—a series based on the experience of St. Bruno, 
and representing the effects of maceration and ghostly penance with revolt¬ 
ing horrors. 

“This,” H. replied, “is not my idea of Christianity. Religion is not 
asceticism, but a principle of love to God that beautifies and exalts common 
life, and fills it with joy.” 

M. Belloc ended with a splendid panegyric upon the ancient Greeks, the 
eloqiience of which I will not mar by attempting to repeat. 

Ever and anon H. was amused at the pathetic air, at once genuine 
French and thoroughly sincere, with which the master assured her, that he 
was ‘‘ desole ” to put her to so much trouble. 

As to Christianity not making men happier, methinks M. Belloc fin-gets 
that the old Greek tragedies are filled with despair and gloom, as their 
prevailing characteristic, and that nearly all the music of the world before 
Christ was in the minor scale, as since Christ it has come to be in the 
major. The whole creation has, indeed, groaned and travailed in pain 
together until now; but the mighty anthem has modulated since the cross, 
and the requiem of Jesus has been the world’s birthsong of appi-oaching 
jubilee. 














TIIE EMEIEE. 


241 


Music is a far better test, moreover, on sucli a point, than painting, for 
just where painting is weakest, namely, in the expression of the highest 
moral and spiritual ideas, there music is most sublimely strong. 

Altogether this morning in the painter’s studio was one of the most 
agreeable we ever spent. But what shall I say then of the evening in a salon 
mndcalc; with the first violoncello playing in the world, and the Princess 
Czartoryski at the piano? We were invited at eight, but it was nine before 
we entered our carriage. We arrived at the hotel of Mrs. Erskine, a sister 
of Lord Dundalk, and found a very select party. There were chairs and 
sofas enough for all without crowding. 

There was Frankomm of the Conservatoire, with his Stradivarius, an 
instrument one hundred and fifty years old, which cost six thousand 
dollars. There was his son, a little lad of twelve, who played almost as 
well as his father. I wish F. and M. could have seen this. He was but a 
year older than F., and yet played with the most astonishing perfection. 
Among other things the little fellow performed a morceau of his own com¬ 
position, which was full of pathos, and gave tokens of uncommon ability. 
His father gave us sonatas of Mozart, Chopin, &c., and a polonaise. 
The Princess Czartoryski accompanied on the piano with extraordinary 
ability. 

That was an evening to be remembered a lifetime. One heard, probably, 
the best music in the world of its kind, performed under prepared circum¬ 
stances, the most perfectly adapted tp give effect. There was no whisper¬ 
ing, no noise. All felt, and heard, and enjoyed. I conversed with the 
princess and with Frankomm. The former speaks English, the latter 
none. I interpreted for H., and she had quite a little conversation with 
him about his son, and about music. She told him she hoped the day was 
coming when art would be consecrated to express the best and purest 
emotions of humanity. He had read Uncle Tom; and when he read it he 
exclaimed, “This is genuine Christianity” — Ceci cst la vraie Chris - 
tianisme /” i 

The attentions shown to H. were very touching and agreeable. There 
is nothing said or done that wearies or oppresses her. She is made to feel 
perfectly free, at large, at ease; and the regard felt for her is manifested in 
a way so delicate, so imperceptibly fine and considerate, that she is rather 
strengthened by it than exhausted. This is owing, no doubt, to the fact 
that avc came determined to be as private as possible, and with an explicit 
understanding with Mrs. C. to that effect. Instead of trying to defeat her 
purpose, and force her into publicity, the feAv who know of her presence 
seem to try to help her carry it out, and see how much they can do for her, 
consistently therewith. 

Tuesday, June 14. To-day we dined at six p.m., and read till nine. 
Then drove to an evening salon —quite an early little party at Mrs. Put¬ 
nam’s. Saw there Peter Parley and La Rochejaquelin, the only one of the 
old nobility that joined Louis Napoleon. Peter Parley is consul no longer, 
it seems. We discussed the empire a very little. “To be, or not to be, 
that is the question.” Opinions are various as the circles. Every circle 
draws into itself items of information, that tend to indicate what it wishes 
to be about to happen. Still, Peter Parley and I, and some other equally 
cautious people, think that this cannot always last. By this , of course, Aim 
mean this ‘ ‘ thing”—this empire, so called. Sooner or later it must end 

R 


242 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


in revolution; and then what? Said a gentleman the other day, u Nothing 
holds him up hut fear of the Red.”*' 

After chatting a while, Yveston and I slipped out, and drove to the 
Jardin Mabille, a garden in the Champs Elysees, whither thousands go 
every Eight. We entered by an avenue of poplars and other trees and 
shrubs, so illuminated by jets of gas sprinkled amongst the foliage as to 
give it the effect of enchantment. It was neither moonlight nor daylight, 
but a kind of spectral aurora, that made every thing seem unearthly. 

As we entered the garden, we found flower beds laid out in circles, 
squares, lozenges, and every conceivable form, with diminutive jets of gas 
so distributed as to imitate flowers of the softest tints, and the most perfect 
shape. This, too, seemed unearthly, weird. We seemed, in an instant, 
transported into some Thalaba’s cave, infinitely beyond the common sights 
and sounds of every-day life. In the centre of these grounds there is a 
circle of pillars, on the top of each of which is a pot of flowers, with gas 
jets, and between them an arch of gas jets. This circle is very large. In 
the midst of it is another circle, forming a pavilion for musicians, also bril¬ 
liantly illuminated, and containing a large cotillon band of the most finished 
performers. 

Around this you find thousands of gentlemen and ladies strolling singly, 
in pairs, or in groups. There could not be less than three thousand persons 
present. While the musicians repose, they loiter, sauntering round, or 
recline on seats. 

But now a lively waltz strikes the ear. In an instant twenty or thirty 
couples are whirling along, floating, like thistles in the wind, around the 
central pavilion. Their feet scarce touch the smooth-trodden earth. Round 
and round, in a vortex of life, beauty, and brilliancy they go, a whirlwind 
of delight. Eyes sparkling, cheeks flushing, and gauzy draperies floating 
by; while the crowds outside gather in a ring, and watch the giddy revel. 
There are countless forms of symmetry and grace, faces of wondrous beauty, 
both among the dancers and among the spectators. 

There, too, are feats of agility and elasticity quite aerial. One lithe and 
active dancer grasped his fair partner by the waist. She was dressed in a 
red dress, was small, elastic, agile, and went by like the wind. And now 
and then, in the course of every few seconds, he would give her a whirl and 
a lift, sending her spinning through the air, around himself as an axis, full 
four feet from the ground. 

Then the music ceases, the crowd dissolves, and floats and saunters away. 
On every hand are games of hazard and skill, with balls, tops, wheels, Ac., 
where, for five cents a trial, one might seek to gain a choice out of glittering 
articles exposed to view. 

Then the band strike up again, and the whirling dance renews its 
vortex ; and so it goes on, from hour to hour, till two or three in the morn¬ 
ing. Not that we stayed till then ; we saw all we wanted to see, and left by 
eleven. But it is a scene perfectly unearthly, or rather perfectly Parisian, 
and just as earthly as possible ; yet a scene where earthliness is worked un 
into a style of sublimation the most exquisite conceivable. 

Entrance to this paradise can be had for gentlemen, a dollar; ladies free. 
This tells the whole story. N evertheless, do not infer that there are not 

* That is, fear of the Red Republicans. 








JAUDIN MABTLLE. 


243 

any respectable ladies there. It is a place so remarkable that very few 
strangers stay long in Paris without taking a look at it. And though young 
ladies residing in Paris never go, and matrons very seldom, yet occasionally 
it is the case that some ladies of respectability look in. The best dancers, 
those who exhibit such surprising feats of skill and agility, are professional 
—paid by the establishment. 

Nevertheless, aside from the impropriety inherent in the very nature of 
waltzing, there was not a word, look, or gesture of immorality or impro¬ 
priety. The dresses were all decent; and if there was vice, it was vice 
masked under the guise of polite propriety. 

How different, I could not but reflect, is all this from the gin-palaces of 
London ? There, there is, indeed, a dazzling splendour of gas-light; but 
there is nothing artistic, nothing refined, nothing appealing to the imagi¬ 
nation. There are only hogsheads and barrels, and the appliances for 
serving out strong drink. And there, for one sole end, the swallowing of 
fiery stimulant, come the nightly thousands—from the gay and well-dressed 
to the haggard and tattered, in the last stage of debasement. The end is the 
same—by how different paths ! Here, they dance along the path to ruin, 
with flowers and music; there, they cast themselves bodily, as it were, into 
the lake of fire. 

Wednesday, June 15. Went in the forenoon to M. Belloc’s studio, and 
read while H. was sitting. 

Then we drove to Madame Roger’s, who is one of the leaders of Paris 
taste and legislation in dress, and who is said to have refused to work for a 
duchess who neglected to return her husband’s bow. I sat in the outer 
courts while some mysterious affairs were being transacted in the inner 
rooms of state. 

Then we drove to the Louvre, and visited the remains from Nineveh. 
They are fewer in number than those in the British Museum, which I have 
not yet seen. But the pair of human-headed winged bulls are said to be 
equal in size to any. 

I was very much impressed, not only by the solemn grandeur of the 
thought that thirty centuries were looking down upon me out of those 
stony eyes, but by what I have never seen noticed, the magnificent phreno¬ 
logical development of the heads. The brow is absolutely prodigious—• 
broad, high, projecting, massive. It is the brow of a divinity indeed, or of 
a cherub, which I am persuaded is the true designation of these creatures. 
They are to me but the earliest known attempts to preserve the cherubim 
that formed the fiery portals of the Eden temple until quenched in the 
surges of the deluge. 

Out of those eyes of serene, benign, profound reflection, therefore, not 
thirty, but sixty centuries look down upon me. I seem to be standing at 
those mysterious Eden gates, where Adam and Eve first guided the 
worship of a world, amid the sad, yet sublime symbols of a previous exist¬ 
ence in heavenly realms. 

After leaving the Louvre II. and I took a caleche, or open two-seat 
carriage, and drove from thence to the Madeleine, and thence the tvliole 
length of the Boulevards, circling round, crossing the Pont d’Austerlitz, and 
coming back by the Avenue de PObservatoire and the Luxembourg. 

Then we saw theatres, the Port St. Denis, Port St. Martin the site of 

K 2 


244 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

of the Bastile, and the most gay, beautiful, and bustling boulevards of the 
metropolis. 

As we were proceeding along the Boulevard des Italiens, I saw the street 
beginning to line with people, the cabs and carriages drawing to either side 
and stopping ; police officers commanding, directing, people running, 
pushing, looking this way and that. “Qu? y a-t-il ?” said I, standing up by 
the driver—“ What’s the matter ?” 

“ The emperor is coming,” said he. 

“Well,” said I, “draw to one side, and turn a little, so that we can see.” 

He did so, and H. and I both stood up, looking round. We saw several 
outriders in livery, on the full trot, followed by several carriages. They 
came very fast, the outriders calling to the people to get out of the way. 
In the first carriage sat the emperor and the empress—he, cold, stiff, 
stately, and homely; she, pale, beautiful, and sad. They rode not t\vO 
rods from us. There was not a hat taken off, not a single shout, not a 
“ Vive V Empereur.” Without a single token of greeting or applause, he 
rode through the ever-forming, ever-dissolving avenue of people — the 
abhorred, the tolerated tyrant. “Why do they not cry out ?” I said to the 
coachman, “ Why do they not cry, “ Vive VEmpereur ?” A most expres¬ 
sive shrug was the answer, and “I do not know. I suppose, because they 
do not choose.” 

Thursday, June 16. Immediately after breakfast we were to visit 
Chateau de Corbeville. The carriage came, and H., Mrs, C., and W. 
entered. I mounted the box with the “cocker,” as usual. To be shut up 
in a box, and peep out at the -window while driving through such scenes, is 
horrible. By the way, our party would have been larger, but for the arrest 
of Monsieur F., an intimate friend of the family, which took place at five 
o’clock in the morning. 

He was here yesterday in fine spirits, and he and his wife were to have 
joined our party. His arrest is on some political suspicion, and as the 
result cannot be foreseen, it casts a shadow over the spirits of our house¬ 
hold. 

We drove along through the bright, fresh morning-—I enjoying the 
panorama of Paris exceedingly—to the Western Railway Station, where we 
took tickets for Versailles. 

We feel as much at home now, in these continental railroad stations, as 
in our own—nay, more so. Everything is so regulated here, there is almost 
no possibility of going wrong, and there is always somebody at hand whose 
business it is to be very polite, and tell you just what to do. 

A very pleasant half hour’s ride brought us to Versailles. There we 
took a barouche for the day, and started for the chateau. In about an hour 
and a half, through very pleasant scenery, we came to the spot, where we 
were met by Madame V. and her daughter, and, alighting, walked to the 
chateau through a long avenue, dark with overarching trees. We were to 
have a second breakfast at about one o’clock in the day; so we strolled out 
to a seat on the terrace, commanding a fine and very extensive prospect. 

Madame V. is the wife of an eminent lawyer, who held the office of 
intendant of the civil list of Louis Philippe, and has had the settlement of 
that gentleman’s pecuniary affairs since his death. At the time of the 
coup d'etat, being then a representative, he was imprisoned, and his wife 
showed considerable intrepidity in visiting him, walking on foot through 


SARTO EY. 


the prison yard, amongst the soldiers sitting drunk on the cannon. At 
present Monsieur Y. is engaged in his profession at Paris. 

Madame V. is a pleasant-looking Frenchwoman, of highly-cultivated 
mind and agreeable manners; accomplished in music and in painting. Her 
daughter, about fifteen, plays well, and is a good specimen of a well- 
educated French demoiselle, not yet out. They are simply ciphers, except 
as developed in connexion with and behind shelter of their mother. She 
performed some beautiful things beautifully, and then her mother played a 
duet with her. We took a walk through the groves, and sat on the bank, 
on the brow of a commanding eminence. A wide landscape was before us, 
characterized by every beauty of foliage conceivable, but by none more 
admirable, to my eye, than the poplars, which sustain the same relation to 
French scenery that spruces do to that of Maine. Reclining there, we could 
almost see, besides the ancient territory of the Duke D’Orsay, the celebrated 
valley of Chartreuse, where was the famous Abbey of Port Royal, a valley 
filled with historic associations. If it had not been for a bill which stood 
in the way, we should have seen it. At our leisure we discussed painting. 
Befoi'e us, a perfect landscape; around us, a deep solitude and stillness, 
broken by the sighing of ancient aristocratic shades, and the songs of birds; 
within us, emotions of lassitude and dreamy delight. 

We had found a spot where existence was a blessing; a spot where to 
exist was enough; where the “to be” was, for a moment, disjoined from 
the inexorable “to do,” or “to suffer.” How agreeable to converse with 
cultivated and refined artistic minds ! How delightful to find people to 
whom the beautiful has been a study, and art a world in which they could 
live, move, and have their being ! And yet it was impossible to prevent a 
shade of deep sadness from resting on all things—a tinge of melancholy. 
Why ?—why this veil of dim and indefinable anguish at sight of whatever 
is most fair, at hearing whatever is most lovely ? Is it the exiled spirit, 
yearning for its own ? Is it the captive, to whom the ray of heaven’s own 
glory comes through tho crevice of his dungeon walls ? But this is a 
digression. Returning, we examined the mansion, a fine specimen of the 
old French chateau; square built, with high Norman roof, and a round, 
conical-topped tower at each corner. In front was a garden, curiously laid 
out in beds, and knots of flowers, with a fountain in the centre. This 
garden was enclosed on all sides by beech trees, clipped into lofty walls of 
green. The chateau had once been fortified, but now the remains of the 
fortifications are made into terraces, planted with roses and honeysuckles. 
Here we heard, for the first time in our lives, the nightingale’s song; a 
gurgling warble, with an occasional crescendo, a la Jenny Lind. 

At five we dined; took carriage at seven, cars at nine, and arrived in 
Paris at ten. 

Friday, June 17. At twelve o’clock I started for Versailles to visit 
the camp at Sartory, where I understood the emperor was to review the 
troops. 

At Versailles I mounted the top of an omnibus with two Parisian 
gentlemen. As I opened my umbrella one of them complimented me on 
having it. I replied that it was quite a necessary of life. He answered, 
and we were soon quite chatty. I inquired about the camp at Sartory, and 
whether the emperor was to be there. He said he had heard so. 

He then asked me if we had not a camp near London, showing that he 


246 


StTNITY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


took me for an Englishman. I replied that there was a camp there, though 
I had not seen it, and that I was an American. In reply, he congratulated 
me that the Americans were far ahead of the English. 

I complimented him then in turn on Versailles and its galleries, and told 
him that there was not a nation on earth that had such monuments of its 
own history and greatness. They were highly elated at this, and we rode 
along in the best possible humour together. Nothing will make a French¬ 
man thoroughly your friend sooner than heartily to praise his country. It 
is for this I love them. 

Arrived at Sartory, I had a long walk to reach the camp; and instead 
of inquiring, as I ought to have done, whether the review was to take place, 
I took it for granted. I saw bodies of soldiers moving in various directions, 
officers galloping about and flying artillery trundling along, and heard 
drums, trumpets, and bands, and thought it was all right. 

A fifteen minutes’ walk brought me to the camp, where tents for some 
twenty-five thousand whiten the plain far as the eye can reach. There, too, 
I saw distant masses of infantry moving. I might have known by their 
slouchy way that they were getting home from parade, not preparing for it. 
But I thought the latter, and lying down under a tree, waited for the review 
to begin. 

It was almost three o’clock. I waited, and waited. The soldiers did 
not come. I waited, and waited, and waited. The soldiers seemed to have 
gone more and more. The throne were the emperor was to sit remained 
unoccupied. At last it was four o’clock. Thought I, I will just ask these 
redcaps here about this. 

“Messieurs,” said I, “will you be so good as to inform me if the em¬ 
peror is to be here to-day ?” 

“No,” they replied, “ he comes on Sunday.” 

“ And what is to be done here, then?” I asked. 

“ Here,” they replied, “to-day? Nothing; c’ est Jinx —it is all over. 
The review was at one o’clock.” 

There I had been walking from Versailles, and waiting for a parade 
some two hours after it was all over, among crowds of people, who 
could have told me at once, if I had not been so excessively modest as not 
to ask. 

About that time an American might have been seen precipitately seeking 
the railroad. I had not seen the elephant. It was hot, dusty, and there 
was neither cab nor caldche in reach. 

I arrived at the railroad station just in time to see the train go out at 
one end as I came in at the other. This was conducive to a frame of mind 
that scarcely needs remark. Out of that depdt (it was half-past four, and 
six they dine in Paris) with augmented zeal and decision I pitched into 
a cab. 

U A Vautre station , rite, vite !”—To the other station, quick, quick! 
He mounted the box, and commenced lashing his Rosinante, who was a 
subject for crows to mourn over (because they could hope for nothing in 
trying to pick him), and in an ambling, scrambling pace, composed of a 
trot, a canter, and a kick, we made a descent like an avalanche into the 
f-tation yard. There Richard was himself again. I assumed at once the 
air of a gentleman who had seen the review, and walked about with com¬ 
posure and dignity. No doubt I had seen the emperor and all the troops. 


PERE LA CHAISE. 247 

succeeded in getting home just in the middle of dinner, and by dint of 
hard eating caught up at the third course with the rest. 

That I consider a very -white day. Some might call it green, but I 
mark such days with white always. 

In the evening we attended the salon of Lady Elgin, a friend of our 
hostess. Found there the Marquis de M., whose book on the spiritual 
rappings comes out next week. We conversed on the rappings ad 
nauseam. 

By the way, her ladyship rents the Hotel de la Rochefoucauld, in the 
Rue de Yarenne, Faubourg St. Germain. 

St. Germain is full of these princely, aristocratic mansions. Mournfully 
beautiful—desolately grand. Out of the stern, stony street, we entered a 
wide, square court, under a massive arched gateway, then through the 
Rez-de-Chaussee, or lotver suite of rooms, passed out into the rear of the 
house to find ourselves in the garden, or rather a kind of park, with tall 
trees, flooded in moonlight, bathed in splendours, and with their distant, 
leafy arches (cut with artistic skill) reminding one of a Gothic temple. 
Such a magnificent forest scene in the very heart of Paris ! 

Saturday, June 18.—After breakfast rode out to Arc de Triomphe de 
FEtoile, and thence round the exterior barriers and boulevards to Pere la 
Chaise. 

At every entrance to the city past the barriers (which are now only a 
street) there is agate, and a building marked “ Octroi,” which means 
customs. 

No carriage can pass without being examined, though the examination is 
a mere form. 

Pere la Chaise did not interest me much, except that from the top of the 
hill I gained a good view of the city. It is filled with tombs and monuments, 
and laid out in streets. The houses of the dead are smaller than the 
houses of the living, but they are made like houses, with doors, windows, 
and an empty place inside for an altar, crucifix, lamps, wreaths, &c. Tombs 
have no charm for me. I am not at all interested or inspired by them. 
They do not serve with me the purpose intended, viz., of calling up the 
memory of the departed. On the contrary, their memory is associated with 
their deeds, their works, the places where they wrought, and the monuments 
of themselves they have left. Here, however, in the charnel house is com¬ 
memorated but the event of their deepest shame and degradation, their total 
vanquishment under the dominion of death, the triumph of corruption. 

Here all that was visible of them is insulted by the last enemy, in tho 
deepest, most humiliating posture of contumely. 

From Pere la Chaise I came home to dinner at six. H., meanwhile, had 
been sitting to M. Belloc. 

After dinner H. and the two Misses C. rode out to the Bois de Boulogne, 
the fashionable drive of Paris. 

We saw all the splendid turnouts, and all the not splendid. Our horse 
was noted for the springhalt. It is well to have something to atti'act atten¬ 
tion about one, you know. 

Sabbath, June 19. After breakfast went with Miss W. to the temple 
St. Marie, to hear Adolphe Monod. Was able to understand him very 
well. Gained a new idea of the capabilities of the French language as the 
vehicle of religious thought and experience. I had thought that it was a 


248 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


language incapable of being made to express the Hebrew mind and feeling 
of Scripture. I think differently. The language of Canaan can make its 
way through all languages, and in the French it has a pathos, point, and 
simplicity which are wonderful. There were thoughts in the sermon which 
I shall never forget. I feel myself highly rewarded for going. 

The congregation was as large as the church could possibly hold, and 
composed of very interesting and intelligent-looking people. His subject 
was, “ If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth willingly, 
and without upbraiding,” &c. It was most touchingly adapted to the 
wants of the unhappy French, and of all poor sinners; and it came home to 
me in particular, as if it had been addressed to me singly, so that I could 
not help crying. 

The afternoon and evening spent at home, reading. H. went in the 
morning with Madame cle T. to the Catholic service, at the church St.* 
Germaine l’Auxerrois, and her companion pointed out the different parts of 
the service. 

H. said she was moved with compassion towards these multitudes, who 
seem so very earnest and solemn. Their prayer-books contain much that 
is excellent, if it was not mixed with so much that is idolatrous. 

Monday, June 20. Went to have our passport vised. The sky was 
black, and the rain pouring in torrents. As I reached the quay the Seine 
was rushing dark, and turbidly foaming. I crept into a fiacre, and was 
amused, as we rattled on, to see the plight of gay and glittering Paris. 
One poor organ grinder, on the Pont National, sat with his umbrella over 
his head, and his body behind the parapet, grinding away in the howling 
storm. It was the best use for a hand organ I ever saw. The gardens of 
the Tuileries presented a sorry sight. The sentries slunk within their 
boxes. The chairs were stacked and laid on their sides. The paths were 
flooded; and the classic statues looked as though they had a dismal time of 
it, in the general shower bath. 

My passport went through the office of the American embassy, prefecture 
of the police, and the bureau des affaires etrangercs , and the Swiss lega¬ 
tion, and we were all right for the frontier. 

Our fair hostesses are all Alpine mountaineers, posted up in mountain 
lore. They make you look blank one moment with horror at some escape 
of theirs from being dashed down a precipice; the next they run you a rig 
indeed over the Righi; anon you shamble through Chamounix, and break 
your neck over the Col-de-balme, and, before you are aware, are among 
the lacking at Interlachen. 

Wednesday, June 22. Adieu to Paris! Ho for Chalons sur Saone! 
After affectionate farewells of our kind friends, by eleven o’clock we were 
rushing, in the pleasantest of cars, over the smoothest of rails, through 
Burgundy that was; I reading to H. out of Dumas’ Impressions cle Voyage , 
going over our very route. We arrived at Chalons at nine in the evening, 
and were soon established in the Hotel du Park, in two small brick-floored 
chambers, looking out upon the steamboat landing. 

Thursday, 23. Eight o’clock a.m. Since five we have had a fine bustle 
on the quay below our windows. There lay three steamers, shaped, for 
all the world, like our last night’s rolls. One would think Ichabod Crane 
might sit astride one of them and dip his feet in the water. They ought 


LYONS. 249 

to be switt. VHirondelle (the Swallow) Hew at five; another at six. We 
leave at nine. 

Eleven o’clock. Here we go clown the Saone. Cabin thirty feet by ten, 
papered and varnished in imitation of maple. Ladies knitting, netting, 
nodding, napping; gentlemen yawning, snoring; children frolicking; dogs 
whirling. Overhead a constant tramping, stamping, and screeching of the 
steam valve. H. suggests an excursion forward. We heave up from Hades, 
and cautiously thread the crowded Al Sirat of a deck. The day is fine; 
the air is filled with golden beams. 

More and more beautiful grows the scene as we approach the Rhone— 
the river broader, hills more commanding, and architecture tinged with 
the Italian. Bradshaw says it equals the Rhine. 

At Lyons there was a scene of indescribable confusion. Out of the hold 
a man with a rope and hook was hauling baggage up a smooth board. 
Three hundred people were sorting their goods without checks. Porters 
were shouldering immense loads, four or five heavy trunks at once, corded 
together, and stalking off Atlantean. Hatboxes, bandboxes, and valises 
burst like a meteoric shower out of a crater, “a moi , a moi /” was the 
cry, from old men, young women, soldiers, shopkeepers, and pretres, 
scuffling and shoving together. Careless at once of grammar and of grace, 
I pulled and shouted with the best, till at length our plunder was caught, 
corded and poised on an herculean neck. We followed in the wake, H. 
trembling lest the cord should break, and we experience a pre-Alpine 
avalanche. At length, however, we breathed more freely in rooms ctu, 
quatrieme of Hotel de V Univers. 

After dinner we drove to the cathedral. It was St. John’s eve. “At 
twelve o’clock to-night,” said Id., “the spirits of all who are to die this 
year will appear to any who will go alone into the dark cathedral and 
summon them !” We were charmed with the interior. Twilight hid all 
the dirt, cobwebs, and tawdry tinsel; softened the outlines, and gave to 
the immense arches, columns, and stained windows a strange and thrilling 
beauty. The distant tapers seeming remoter than reality, the kneeling 
crowds, the heavy vesper chime, all combined to realize, H. said, her 
dreams of romance more perfectly than ever before. We could not tear 
ourselves away. But the clash of the sexton’s keys, as he smote them to¬ 
gether, was the signal to be gone. One after another the tapers were ex¬ 
tinguished. The kneeling figures rose ; and shadowily we flitted forth, as 
from some gorgeous cave of grammarye. 

Saturday, June 25. Lyons to Geneve. As this was our first expe¬ 
rience in the diligence line, we noticed particularly every peculiarity. A 
diligence is a large, heavy, strongly-built, well-hung stage, consisting ot 
five distinct departments,—coupe, berline, omnibus, banquette, and bag¬ 
gage top. _ _ . „ 

After setting up housekeeping in our berline, and putting all “ to rights,” 
the whips cracked, bells jingled, and away we thundered by the arrowy 
Rhone. I had had the idea that a diligence was a rickety, slow-moulded 
antediluvian nondescript, toiling patiently along over impassable roads at a 
snail’s pace. Judge of my astonishment at finding it a. full-blooded, 
vigorous monster, of unscrupulous railway momentum and imperturbable 
equipoise of mind. 

Down the macadamized slopes we thundered at a prodigious pace; up the 



SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


250 

hills we trotted with six horses, three abreast; madly through the little 
towns we burst, like a whirlwind, crashing across the pebbled streets, and 
out upon the broad, smooth, road again. Before we had well considered 
the fact that we were out of Lyons, we stopped to change horses. Done in 
a jiffy; and whoop, crick, crack, whack, rumble, bump, whirr, whisk, 
away we blazed, till, ere we knew it, another change, and another. 

“Really, LI.,” said I, “this is not slow. The fact is, we are going 
ahead. I call this travelling—never was so comfortable in my life.” 

“ Nor I,” quoth she. “And, besides, we are unwinding the Rhone all 
along.” 

And, sure enough we were; ever and anon getting a glimpse of him 
spread mazily all abroad in some beautiful vale, like a midguard anaconda 
done in silver. 

At Nantua, a sordid town, with a squalid inn, we dined, at two, 
deliciously, on a red shrimp soup; no, not soup, it was a potage; no, a 
stew; no, a creamy, unctuous mess, muss, or whatever you please to call 
it. Sanclio Panza never ate his olla podrida with more relish. Success to 
mine host of the jolly inn of Nantua ! 

Then Ave thunderbolted along again, shot through a grim fortress, 
crossed a boundary line, and were in SAvitzerland. Yive SAvitzerland ! land 
of Alps, glaciers, and freemen ! 

As evening drew on, a wind sprang up, and a storm seemed gathering 
on the Jura. The rain dashed against the panes of the berline, as Ave rode 
past the grim-faced monarch of the “misty shroud.” A cold wind Avent 
sweeping by, and the Rhone was rushing far below, discernible only in the 
distance as a rivulet of flashing foam. It was night as Ave drove into 
Geneva, and stopped at the Messagerie. I heard with joy a voice demand¬ 
ing if this were Monsieur Beshare. I replied, not Avithout some scruples of 
conscience, “ Oui, monsieur , c'est moi ,” though the name did not sound 
exactly like the one to Avdiich I had been wont to respond. In half an hour 
Ave were at home, in the mansion of Monsieur Fazy. 

Geneve, Monday, June 27. The day daAvned clear over this palace of 
enchantment. The mountains, the lake, the entire landscape on every 
side revealed itself from our lofty windows Avith -transparent brilliancy. 
This house is built on high ground, at the end of the lake near where the 
Rhone flows out. It is very high in the rooms, and we are in the fourth 
story, and have distant Auews on all four sides. The AvindoAvs are A r ery 
large, and open in leaves, on hinges, like doors, leaving the entire Avindow 
clear, as a frame for the distant picture. 

In the afternoon we rode out across the Rhone, where it breaks from the 
lake, and round upon the ascending shore. It is seldom here that the Alps 
are visible. The least mist hides them completely, so that travellers are 
wont to record it in their diaries as a great event, “I saAv Mont Blanc 
to-day.” Yesterday there Avas nothing but clouds and thick gloom ; but 
now we had not ridden far before H. sprang suddenly, as if she had lost her 
senses—her cheek flushed and her eye flashing. I was frightened. 
“There,” said she, pointing out of the side of the carriage across the 
lake, “there he is—there’s Mont Blanc.” “Pooh,” said I, “no such 
thing.” And some trees for a moment interA r ened, and shut out the view. 
Presently the trees opened, and H. cried, “There, that white; don’t you 
Bee !—there, there!”—pointing with great energy, as if she Ayere getting 


MONT BLANC. 


251 


ready to fly. I looked and saw, sure enough, "behind the dark mass of the 
Mole (a huge blue-black mountain in the foreground), the granite ranges 
rising gradually and grim as we rode; but, further still, behind those gray 
and ghastly barriers, all bathed and blazing in the sun’s fresh splendours, 
undimmed by a cloud, unveiled even by a filmy fleece of vapour, and oh, 
so white—so intensely, blindingly white ! against the dark-blue sky, the 
needles, the spires, the solemn pyramid, the transfiguration cone of Mont 
Blanc. Higher, and still higher, those apocalyptic splendours seemed 
lifting their spectral, spiritual forms, seeming to rise as we rose, seeming 
to start like giants hidden from behind the black brow of intervening 
ranges, opening wider the amphitheatre of glory, until, as we reached the 
highest point in our road, the whole unearthly vision stood revealed in 
sublime perspective. The language of the Revelation came rushing through 
my soul. This is, as it were, a door opened in heaven. Here are some of 
those everlasting mountain ranges, whose light is not of the sun, nor of the 
moon, but of the Lord God and of the Lamb. Here is, as it were, a great 
white throne, on which One might sit before whose face heaven and earth 
might flee ; and here a sea of glass mingled with fire. Nay, rather, here 
are some faint shadows, some dim and veiled resemblances, which bring our 
earth-imprisoned spirits to conceive remotely what the disencumbered eyo 
of the ecstatic apostle gazed upon. 

With solemn thankfulness we gazed—thankfulness to God for having 
withdrawn his veil of clouds from this threshold of the heavenly vestibule, 
and brought us across the Atlantic to behold. And as our eyes, blinded by 
the dazzling vision—which we might reside here years without beholding 
in such perfection—filled with tears, we were forced to turn them away and 
hide them, or fasten them upon the dark range of Jura on the other side of 
ns, until they were able to gaze again. Thus we rode onward, obtaining 
new points of view, new effects, and deeper emotions; nor can time efface 
the impressions we received in the depths of our souls. 

A lady, at whose door we alighted for a moment to obtain a particular 
point of view, told us that at sunset the mountain assumed a peculiar 
transparency, with most mysterious hues of blue and purple; so that she 
had seen irreligious natures, frivolous and light, when suddenly called out 
to look, stand petrified, or rather exalted above themselves, and irresistibly 
turning their faces, their thoughts, their breathings of adoration up to God. 

I do not wonder that the eternal home of the glorified should be sym¬ 
bolized by a Mount Zion. I do not wonder that the Psalmist should say, 
“ I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help !” 
For surely earth cannot present, nor unassisted fancy conceive, an object 
more profoundly significant of divine majesty than these mountains in their 
linen vesture of everlasting snow. 

Tuesday, June 28. The morning dawned clear, warm, and cloudless. A 
soft haze rested on the distant landscape, without, however, in the least 
dimming its beauty. 

At about eleven we set off with two horses in an open carriage, by the 
left shore, to visit St. Cergue, and ascend the Jura. All our way was 
gradually ascending, and before us, or rather across the lake on one side, 
stood the glorious New Jerusalem scene. We were highly favoured. Every 
moment diminished the intervening mountains, and lifted the gorgeous 
pageant higher into the azure. 



252 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LA.NDS 


Every step, every turn, presented it in some new point of view, and ex¬ 
tended the range of observation. New Alps were continually rising, and 
diamond-pointed peaks glancing up behind sombre granite bulwarks. 

At noon cocker stopped at a village to refresh his horses. AVe proceeded 
to a cool terrace filled with trees, and lulled by the splash of a fountain, 
from whence the mountain was in full view. Here we investigated the 
mysteries of a certain basket which our provident hostess had brought with 
her. 

After due refreshment and repose we continued our route, ascending the 
Jura, towards the Dole, which is the highest mountain of that range. A 
macadamized road coiled up the mountain side, affording us at every turn¬ 
ing a new and more splendid view of the other shore of the lake. At 
length we reached St. Cergul, and leaving the carriage, H. and I guided by 
a peasant girl, went through the woods to the highest poiut, where were 
the ruins of the ancient chateau. Far be it from me to describe what 
we saw. I feel that I have already been too presumptuous. A/Ve sat down, 
and each made a hasty sketch of Mont Blanc. 

AVe took tea at the hotel, which reminded us, by the neatness of its 
scoured chambers with their white bedspreads, of the apartments of some 
out-of-the-way New England farmhouse. 

The people of the neighbourhood having discovered who H. was,, were 
very kind, and full of delight at seeing her. It was Scotland over again. 
AVe have had to be unflinching to prevent her being overwhelmed, both in 
Paris and Geneva, by the same demonstrations of regard. To this we w T ere 
driven, as a matter of life and death. It was touching to listen to the talk 
of these secluded mountaineers. The good hostess, even the servant maids, 
hung about Id., expressing such tender interest for the slave. All had read 
Uncle Tom. And it had apparently been an era in their life’s monotony, 
for they said, “ 0, madam, do write another? Remember our winter nights 
here are very long !” 

The proprietor of the inn (not the landlord) 'was a gentleman of education 
and polished demeanour. lie had lost an Eva, he said. And he spoke with 
deep emotion. He thanked H. for what she had written, and at parting 
said, ‘ ‘ Have courage; the sacred cause of Liberty will yet prevail through 
the world.” 

Ah, they breathe a pure air, these generous Swiss, among these mountain 
tops ! May their simple words be a prophecy divine. 

At about six we returned, and as we slowly wound down the mountain 
side we had a full view of all the phenomena of colour attending the sun’s 
departure. The mountain,—the city rather,—for so high had it risen, that 
I could imagine a New Jerusalem of pearly w r hite, with Mont Blanc for the 
central citadel, or temple,—the city was all a-glou\ The air behind, the 
sky, became of a delicate apple green ; the snow, before so incandescent in 
whiteness, assumed a rosy tint. AVe paused—w r e sat in silence to witness 
these miraculous transformations. “Charley,” said II., “sing that hymn 
of yours, the New Jerusalem.” And in the hush of the mountain solitudes 
we sang together,— 

“AVe are on our journey home, 

AVhere Christ our Lord has gone; 

AVe will meet around his throne, 

AVhen he makes his people one 
In the New Jerusalem. 


MONT BLANC. 


w W o can sco that distant homo, 

Though cloiuls rise oft between; 

Faith views the radiant dome. 

And a lustre flashes keen 
From the New Jerusalem, 

“ 0, glory shining far 

From the never-setting sun ! 

O, trembling morning star ! 

Our journey’s almost done 
To the New Jerusalem. 

“ Our hearts are breaking now 
Those mansions fair to see : 

O Lord, thy heavens bow, 

And raise us up with thee 
To the New Jerusalem.” 

The echoes of our voiees died along the mountain sides, as slowly we 
wended our downward way. The rosy flush began to fade. A rich creamy 
or orange hue seemed to imbue the scene, and finally, as the shadows from 
the Jura crept higher, and covered it with a pall, it assumed a startling, 
deathlike pallor of chalky white. Mont Blanc was dead. Mont Blanc 
was walking as a ghost upon the granite ranges. But as darkness came 
on, and as the sky over the Jura, where the sun had set, obtained a deep, 
rosy tinge, Mont Blanc revived a little, and a flush of delicate, transparent 
pink tinged his cone, and Mont Blanc was asleep. Good night to Mont 
13 lane. 

Wednesday morning, June 2D. The day is intensely hot; the weather 
is exceedingly fair, hut Mont Blanc is not visible. Not a vestige—not a 
trace. All vanished. It does not seem possible. There do not seem to 
exist the conditions for such celestial pageant to have stood there. What! 
there—where my eyes now look steadily and piercingly into the blue, into 
the seemingly fathomless azure—there, will they tell me, I saw that enrap¬ 
tured vision, as it were, the city descending from God out of heaven, as a 
bride adorned for her husband ! Incredible ! It must be a dream, a vision 
of the night. 

Evening. After the heat of the day our whole household, old and 
young, set forth for a boating excursion on the lake. Dividing our party 
in two boats, w r e pulled about a mile up the left shore. Lake Leman 
was before us in all its loveliness; and we were dipping our oar where 
Byron bad floated past scenes which scarce need to become classic to possess 
a superior charm. The sun was just gone behind the Jura, leaving a 
glorious sky. Mont Blanc stood afar behind a hazy veil, like a spirit half 
revealed. We saw it pass before our eyes as we moved. “ It stood still, 
but we could not discern the form thereof.” As we glided on past boats 
uncounted, winged or many-footed, motionless or still, we softly sung,— 

“ Think of me oft at twilight hour, 

And I will think of thee; 

Remembering how we felt its power 
When thou wast still with me. 

“ Dear is that hour, for day then sleeps 
Upon the gray cloud's breast; 

And not a voice or sound e’er keep3 
His wearied eyes from rest.” 


SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


The surface of tlie lake was unruffled. The air was still. An occasional 
burst from the band in the garden of Rousseau came softened in the distance. 
Enveloped in her thick shatvl H. reclined in the stem, and gave herself to 
the influences of the hour. 

Darkness came down ujDon the deep. And in the gloom we turned our 
prows towards the many-twinkling quays, far in the distance. We bent to 
the oar in emulous contest, and our barks foamed and hissed through the 
water. In a few moments we were passing through the noisy crowd on the 
quay towards our quiet home. 


LETTER XXXII. 

ROUTE TO CHAMOUNI.—GLACIERS. 

Dear Ciiildren :— 

I promised to write from Cliamouni, so to commence at the commence¬ 
ment. Fancy me, on a broiling day in July, panting with heat, gazing 
from my window in Geneva upon Lake Leman, which reflects the sun like a 
burning glass, and thinking whether in America, or anywhere else, it was 
ever so hot before. This was quite a new view of the subject to me, who 
had been warned in Paris only of the necessity of blanket shawls, and had 
come to Switzerland with my head full of glaciers, and my trunk full of 
furs. 

While arranging my travelling preparations, Madame F. enters. 

“ Have you considered how cold it is up there?” she inquires. 

“ I am glad if it is cold anywhere,” said I. 

“Ah, you will find it dreadful; you will need to be thoroughly 
guarded.” 

I suggested tippets, flannels, and furs, of which I already possessed a 
moderate supply. But no; these were altogether insufficient. It was 
necessary that I should buy two immense fur coats : one for C., and one 
for myself. 

I assure you that such preparations, made with the thermometer between 
eighty and ninety, impress one with a kind of awe. “ What regions must 
they be,” thought I to myself, “thus sealed up in eternal snows, while 
the country at their feet lies scorching in the very fire !” A shadow of 
incredulity mingled itself with my reflections. On the whole, I bought but 
one fur coat. 

At this moment C. came up to tell me that W., S., and G. had all como 
back from Italy, so that our party was once more together. 

It was on the 5th of July that S. and I took our seats in th q coupe of the 
diligence. Now, this coupe is low and narrow enough, so that our condi¬ 
tion reminded me slightly of the luckless fowls which I have sometimes seen 
riding to the Cincinnati market in coupes of about equal convenience. 
Nevertheless, it might be considered a peaceable and satisfactory style of 
accommodation in an ordinary country. But to ride among the wonders of 
the Alps in such a vehicle is something like contemplating infinity through 
the nose of a bottle. It was really very tantalising and provoking to me 
till C. was so obliging as to resign his seat on top in my favour, and 
descend into Shcol, as he said. Then I began to live; for I could seetotho 
summit of the immense walls of rock under which we were passing. By 



ROUTE TO CHAMOUNT. 


255 


and by we were reminded, by the examination of our passports, that we 
had entered Sardinia; and the officers, being duly satisfied that we were 
not going to Chamouni to levy an army among the glaciers, or raise a 
sedition among the avalanches, let us pass free. The discretion and wisdom 
of this passport system can never be sufficiently admired. It must be 
entirely owing to this, that the Alps do not break out on Europe generally, 
and tear it in pieces. 

But the mountains—how shall I give you the least idea of them? Old, 
sombre, haggard genii, half veiled in clouds, belted with pines, worn and 
furrowed with storms and avalanches, but not as yet crowned with snow. 
For many miles after leaving Geneva, the Mole is the principal object; its 
blue-black outline veering and shifting, taking on a thousand strange 
varieties of form as you approach it, others again as you recede. 

It is a cloudy day; and heavy volumes of vapour are wreathing and un¬ 
wreathing themselves around the gaunt forms of the everlasting rocks, like 
human reasonings, desires, and hopes around the ghastly realities of life and 
death ; graceful, undulating, and sometimes gleaming out in silver or rosy 
wreaths. Still, they are nothing but mist; the dread realities are just 
where they were before. It is odd, though, to look at these cloud caper- 
ings; quite as interesting, in its way, as to read new systems of tran¬ 
scendental philosophy, and perhaps quite as profitable. Yonder is a 
great, whiteheaded cloud, slowly unrolling himself in the bosom of a black 
pine forest. Across the other side of the road a huge granite cliff has picked 
up a bit of gauzy silver, which he is winding round his scraggy neck. 
And now, here comes a cascade right over our heads; a cascade, not of 
water, but of cloud; for the poor little brook that makes it faints away 
before it gets down to us ; it falls like a shimmer of moonlight, or a shower 
of powdered silver, while a tremulous rainbow appears at uncertain 
intervals, like a half-seen spirit. 

The cascade here, as in mountains generally, is a never-failing source of 
life and variety. Water, joyous, buoyant son of Nature, is calling to you. 
leaping, sparkling, mocking at you between bushes, and singing as he goes 
down the dells. A thousand little pictures he makes among the rocks as 
he gees. 

Then, the bizarre outline of the rocks; well does Goethe call them “the 
giant-snouted crags;” ancl as the diligence winds slowly on, they seem to 
lean, and turn, and bend. Nov/ they close up like a wall in front, now 
open in piny and cloudy vistas : now they embrace the torrent in their 
great, black arms; and now, flashing laughter and babbling defiance through 
rifted rocks and uprooted pines, the torrent shoots past them, down into 
some fathomless abyss. These old Alp mothers cannot hold their offspring 
back from abysses any better than poor earth mothers. 

There are phases in nature which correspond to every phase of human 
thought and emotion ; and this stern, cloudy scenery answers to the melan¬ 
choly fatalism of Greek tragedy, or the kindred mournfulness of the Book 
of Job. 

These dark channelled rocks, worn, as with eternal tears,—these traces, 
so evident of ancient and vast desolations,—suggest the idea of boundless 
power and inexorable will, before whose course the most vehement of human 
feelings are as the fine spray of the cataract. 


25G 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANES. 


“ For, surely, the mountain, falling, cometh to nought ; 

The rock is removed out of his place; 

The waters wear the stones ; 

Thou washes! away the things that grow out of the earth. 

And thou destroyest the hopes of man; 

Thou prevailest against him, and he passeth; . 

Thou changest his countenance, and sendest him away.” 

The sceptical inquirer into the mysteries of eternal things might here, if 
ever, feel the solemn irony of Eliphaz the Temanite:— 

“ Should a wise man utter vain knowledge ? 

Should he reason with unprofitable talk ? 

Or with speeches that can do no good ? 

Art thou the first man that ever was born ? 

Or wast thou made before the hills ?” 

There are some of my fellow-travellers, by the by, who, if they had 
been made before the hills, would never have been much wiser. All through 
these solemn passages and gorges, they are discussing hotels, champagne, 
wine, and cigars. I presume they would do the same thing at the gates of 
the Celestial City, if they should accidentally find themselves there. It is 
one of the dark providences that multitudes of this calibre of mind find 
leisure and means to come among these scenes, while many to whom they 
would be an inspiration, in whose souls they would unseal ceaseless foun¬ 
tains of beauty, are for ever excluded by poverty and care. 

At noon we stopped at Sallenches, famous for two things; first, as the 
spot where people get dinner, and second, where they take the char, a 
carriage used when the road is too steep for the diligence. Here S., who 
had been feeling ill all the morning, became too unwell to proceed, so that 
we had to lie by an hour or two, and did not go on with the caravan. I 
sat down at the room window to study and sketch a mountain that rose 
exactly opposite. I thought to myself, “Now, would it be possible to give 
to one that had not seen it an idea of how this looks?” Let me try if 
words can paint it. Right above the flat roof of the houses on the oppo¬ 
site side of the street rose this immense mountain wall. The lower tier 
seemed to be a turbulent swell of pasture land, rolling into every imagi¬ 
nable shape; green billows and dells, rising higher and higher in the ali¬ 
as you looked upward, dyed here and there in bright yellow streaks, by 
the wild crocus, and spotted over with cattle. Dark clumps and belts of 
pine now and then rise up among them; and scattered here and there in 
the heights, among green hollows, were cottages, that looked about as big 
as hickory nuts. 

Above all this region was still another, of black pines and crags; the 
pines going up, and up, and up, till they looked no larger than pin feathers; 
and surmounting all, straight, castellated turrets of rock, looking out of 
swathing bands of cloud. A narrow, dazzling line of snow crowned the 
summit. 

You see before you three distinct regions—of pasture, of pine, of bare, 
eternal sterility. On inquiring the name of the mountain, I was told it 
was the “ Aiguille” something, I forget what; but I discovered that almost 
all the peaks in this region of the Alps are called Aiguille (needle), I 
Suppose from the straight, sharp points that rise at their summits. 

Tliej-e is a bridge here in Sallenches, from which, in clear weather, one 


CHAMOUNI. 


257 

of tlie best views of Mont Blanc can be obtained—so they tell us. To-day 
it is as much behind the veil, and as absolutely a matter of faith as heaven 
itself. Looking in that direction you could not believe that there ever had 
been, or could be, a mountain there. The concealing clouds look as gray, 
as cool, and as absolutely unconscious of any world of glory behind them 
as our dull, cold, every-day life does of a heaven, which is, perhaps, equally 
near us. As we were passing the bridge, however, a gust of icy wind 
swept down the course of the river, whose chilly breath spoke of glaciers 
and avalanches. 

Our driver was one of those merry souls, to be found the world over, 
whose hearts yearn after talk ; and when I volunteered to share the outside 
seat with him, that I might see better, he inquired anxiously if “made¬ 
moiselle understood French,” that he might have the pleasure of enlightening 
her on the localities. Of course mademoiselle could do no less than be 
exceedingly grateful, since a peasant on his own ground is generally better 
informed than a philosopher from elsewhere. 

Our path lay along the banks of the Arve, a raving, brawling, turbulent 
stream of muddy water. A wide belt of drifted, pebbly land, on either 
side of it, showed that at times the torrent had a much wider sweep than 
at present. 

In fact, my guide informed me that the Arve, like most other mountain 
streams, had many troublesome and inconvenient personal habits, such as 
rising up all of a sudden, some night, and whisking off houses, cattle, pine 
trees; in short, getting up sailing parties in such a promiscuous manner that 
it is neither safe nor agreeable to live in his neighbourhood. He showed 
me, from time to time, the traces of such Kuhleborn pranks. 

We were now descending rapidly through the valley of Chamouni, by a 
winding road, the scenery becoming every moment more and more impres¬ 
sive. The path was so steep and so stony that our guide was well enough 
contented to have us walk. I was glad to walk on alone; for the scenery 
was so wonderful that human sympathy and communion seemed to be out 
of the question. The effect of such scenery to our generally sleeping and 
drowsy souls, bound with the double chain of earthliness and sin, is like 
the electric touch of the angel on Peter, bound and sleeping. They make 
us realize that we were not only made to commune with God, but also what 
a God he is with whom we may commune. We talk of poetry, we talk of 
painting, we go to the ends of the earth to see the artists and great men of 
this world; ■ but what a poet, what an artist is God ! Truly said Michael 
Angelo, ‘ ‘ The true painting is only a copy of the divine perfections—a 
shadow of his pencil.” 

I was sitting on a mossy trunk of an old pine, looking up admiringly on 
the wonderful heights around me—crystal peaks sparkling over dark pine 
trees—shadowy, airy distances of mountain heights, rising crystalline amid 
many-coloured masses of cloud; while, looking out over my head from green 
hollows, I saw the small cottages, so tiny, in their airy distance, that they 
seemed scarcely bigger than a squirrel’s nut, which he might have dropped 
in his passage. A pretty Savoyard girl, I should think about fifteen years 
old, came up to me. 

“ Madame admires the mountains,” she said. 

I assented. 

“ Yes,” she added, “ strangers always admire our mountains,” 

s 


258 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


“And don’t you admire them?” said I, looking, I suppose, rather 
amused into her bright eyes. 

“ No,” she said, laughing. “ Strangers come from hundreds of miles to ■ 
see them all the time; but we peasants don’t care for them, no more than 
the dust of the road.” 

I could but half believe the bright little puss when she said so; but 
there was a lumpish soggy fellow accompanying her, whose nature appeared 
to be sufficiently unleavened to make almost anything credible in the line 
of stupidity. In fact, it is one of the greatest drawbacks to the pleasure 
with which one travels through this beautiful country, to see what kind of 
human beings inhabit it. Here in the Alps, heaven above and earth 
beneath, tree, rock, water, light and shadow, every form, and agent, and 
power of nature, seem to be exerting themselves to produce a constant 
and changing poem and romance; everything is grand, noble, free, and 
yet beautiful: in all these regions there is nothing so repulsive as a human 
dwelling. 

A little further on we stopped at a village to refresh the horses. The 
aubcrge where we stopped was built like a great barn, with an earth floor, 
desolate and comfortless. The people looked poor and ground down, as if 
they had not a thought above the coarsest animal wants. The dirty 
children, with their hair tangled beyond all hope of combing, had the 
begging whine, and the trick of raising their hands for money, when one 
looked at them, which is universal in the Catholic parts of Switzerland. 
Indeed, all the way from the Sardinian frontier we had been dogged by 
beggars continually. Parents seemed to look upon their children as valuable 
only for this purpose; the very baby in arms is taught to make a pitiful 
little whine, and put out its fat hand, if your eye rests on it. The fact is, 
they are poor—poor because invention, enterprise, and intellectual vigour 
—all that surrounds the New England mountain farmer with competence 
and comfort—are quenched and dead, by the combined influence of a reli¬ 
gion and government whose interest it is to keep people stupid, that they 
may be manageable. Yet the Savoyards, as a race, it seems to me, are 
naturally intelligent; and I cannot but hope that the liberal course lately 
adopted by the Sardinian government may at last reach them. My heart 
yearns over many of the bright, pretty children, whose little hands have 
been up, from time to time, around our carriage. I could not help think¬ 
ing what good schools and good instruction might do for them. It is not 
their fault, poor little things, that they are educated to whine and beg, and 
grow up rude, uncultured, to bring forth another set of children just like 
themselves; but what to do with them is the question. One generally be¬ 
gins with giving money; but a day or two of experience shows that it would 
be just about as hopeful to feed the locusts of Egypt on a loaf of bread. 
But it is hard to refuse children, especially to a mother who has left five 
or six at home, and who fancies she sees, in some of these little eager, 
childish faces, something now and then that reminds her of her own. Fop 
my part, I got schooled so that I could stand them all, except the little 
toddling three-year-olds—they fairly overcame me. So I supplied my 
pocket with a quantity of sugar lozenges, for the relief of my own mind. 

I usually found the little fellows looked exceedingly delighted when they 
discovered the nature of the coin. Children are unsophisticated, and like 
sugar better than silver, any day. 



CHAMOUNI. 


259 


In this aulerge was a little chamois kid, of which fact we were duly 
apprised, when we got out, by a board put up, which said, ‘ ‘ Here one can 
gee a live chamois.” The little live representative of chamoisdom came 
skipping out with the most amiable unconsciousness, and went through his 
paces for our entertainment with as much propriety as a Hew England child 
says his catechism. He hopped up on a table after some green leaves, 
which were then economically used to make him hop down again. The 
same illusive prospect was used to make him jump over a stick, and per¬ 
form a number of other evolutions. I could not but admire the sweetness 
of temper with -which he took all this tantalizing, and the innocence with 
which he chewed his cabbage leaf after he got it, not harbouring a single 
revengeful thought at us for the trouble we had given him. Of course the 
issue of the matter was, that we all paid a few sous for the sight—not to 
the chamois, which would have been the most equitable way, but to those 
who had appropriated his gifts and graces to eke out their own convenience. 

“Where’s his mother ?” said I, desiring to enlarge my sphere of natural 
history as much as possible. 

“ On a tue sa mere ”—“ They have killed his mother,” was the reply, 
cool enough. 

% There we had the whole story. His entei'prising neighbours had invaded 
the domestic hearth, shot his mother, and eaten her up, made her skin 
into chamois leather, and were keeping him till he got big enough for the 
same disposition, using his talents meanwhile to turn a penny upon; yet 
not a word of all this thought he ; not a bit the less heartily did he caper; 
never speculated a minute on why it was, on the origin of evil, or any¬ 
thing of the sort; or, if he did, at least never said a word about it. I 
gave one good look into his soft, round, glassy eyes, and could see nothing 
there but the most tranquil contentment. He had finished his cabbage 
leaf, and we had finished our call; so we will go on. 

It was now drawing towards evening, and the air began to be sensibly 
and piercingly cold. One effect of this mountain air on myself is, to bring 
on the most acute headache that I ever recollect to have felt. Still, the 
increasing glory and magnificence of the scenery overcame bodily fatigue. 
Mont Blanc, and his army of white-robed brethren, rose before us in the 
distance, glorious as the four and twenty elders around the great white 
throne. The wonderful gradations of colouring in this Alpine landscape 
are not among the least of its charms. How can I describe it ? Imagine 
yourself standing with me on this projecting rock, overlooking a deep, piny 
gorge, through which flow the brawling waters of the Arve. On the other 
side of this rise mountains whose heaving swells of velvet green, cliffs and 
dark pines, are fully made out and coloured; behind this mountain rises 
another, whose greens are softened and shaded, and seem to be seen 
through a purplish veil; behind that rises another, of a decided cloud-like 
purple; and in the next still the purple tint changes to rosy lilac ; while 
above all, like another world up in the sky, mingling its tints with the 
passing clouds, sometimes obscured by them, and then breaking out between 
them, lie the glacier regions. These glaciers, in the setting sun, look like 
rivers of light pouring down from the clouds. Such was the scene, which 
I remember with perfect distinctness as enchaining my attention on one 
point of the road. 

We had now got up to the valley of Chamouni. I looked before me, and 

s 2 


260 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


saw, lying in the lap of the green valley, a gigantic pile of icy pillars, which, 
seen through the trees, at first suggested the idea of a cascade. 

“What is that?” said I to the guide. 

“The Glacier de Boisson.” 

I may as well stop here, and explain to you, once for all, what a glacier 
is. You see before you, as in this case, say thirty or forty mountain peaks, 
and between these peaks what seem to you frozen rivers. The snow from 
time to time melting, and dripping down the sides of the mountain, and 
congealing in the elevated hollows between the peaks, forms a half-fluid 
mass—a river of ice—which is called a glacier. 

As it lies upon the slanting surface, and is not entirely solid throughout, 
the whole mass is continually pushing, with a gradual but imperceptible 
motion, down into the valleys below. At a distance these glaciers, as I 
have said before, look like frozen rivers; when one approaches nearer, or 
where they press downward into the valley, like this Glacier de Boisson, 
they look like immense ci’ystals and pillars of ice piled together in every 
conceivable form. The effect of this pile of ice, lying directly in the lap of 
green grass and flowers, is quite singular. The village of Chamouni itself 
has nothing in particular to recommend it. The buildings and everything 
about it have a rough, coarse appearance. Before we had entered the* 
valley this evening the sun had gone down; the sky behind the mountains 
was clear, and it seemed for a few moments as if darkness was rapidly 
coming on. On our right hand were black, jagged, furrowed walls of 
mountain, and on our left Mont Blanc, with his fields of glaciers and worlds 
of snow; they seemed to hem us in, and almost press us down. But in a 
few moments commenced a scene of transfiguration, more glorious than any¬ 
thing I had witnessed yet. The cold, white, dismal fields of ice gradually 
changed into hues of the most beautiful rose colour. A bank of white 
clouds, which rested above the mountains, kindled and glowed, as if some 
spirit of light had entered into them. You did not lose your idea of the 
dazzling, spiritual whiteness of the snow, yet you seemed to see it through 
a rosy veil. The sharp edges of the glaciers, and the hollows between the 
peaks, reflected wavering tints of lilac and purple. The effect was solemn 
and spiritual above everything I have ever seen. These words, which had 
been often in my mind through the day, and which occurred to me' more 
often than any others while I was travelling through the Alps, came into 
my mind with a pomp and magnificence of meaning unknown before—“ For 
Him were all things created in heaven and on earth, visible and invisi¬ 
ble, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or powers; all 
things are by him and for him; and he is before all things, and by 
him all things subsist.” 

In this dazzling revelation I saw not that cold, distant, unfeeling fate, 
or that crushing regularity of power and wisdom, which was all the ancient 
Greek or modern Deist can behold in God; but I beheld, as it were, crowned 
and glorified, one who had loved with our loves, and suffered with our 
sufferings. Those shining snows were as his garments on the Mount of 
Transfiguration, and that serene and ineffable atmosphere of tenderness and 
beauty, which seemed to change these dreary deserts into worlds of heavenly 
light, was to me an image of the light shed by his eternal love on the sins 
and sorrows of time, and the dread abyss of eternity. 


CEAMOUITI. 


261 


LETTEH XXXIII. 

CHAMOUXI.—EOUSSE, THE MULE.—THE ASCEXT. 

My Dear :— 

Well, I waked up this morning, and the first thought was, “Here I am 
in the valley of Chamouni, right under the shadow of Mont Blanc, that I 
have studied about in childhood and found outlie atlas.” I sprang up, and 
ran to the window, to see if it was really there where I left it last night. 
Yes, true enough, there it was ! right over our heads, as it were, blocking 
up our very existence; filling our minds with its presence; that colossal 
pyramid of dazzling snow ! Its lower parts concealed by the roofs, only the 
three rounded domes of the summit cut their forms with icy distinctness on 
the intense blue of the sky ! 

On the evening before I had taken my last look at about nine o’clock, 
and had mentally resolved to go out before daybreak and repeat Coleridge’s 
celebrated hymn; but I advise any one who has any such liturgic designs 
to execute them over night, for after a day of climbing one acquires 
an aptitude for sleep that interferes with early rising. When I left last 
evening its countenance w'as “filled with rosy light,” and they tell us, 
that hours before it is daylight in the valley this mountain top breaks into 
brightness, like that pillar of fire which enlightened the darkness of the 
Israelites. 

I rejoice every hour that I am among these scenes in my familiarity with 
the language of the Bible. In it alone can I find vocabulary and images to 
express what this world of wonders excites. Mechanically I repeat to 
myself, “ The everlasting mountains were scattered; the perpetual hills did 
bow; his ways are everlasting.” But as straws, chips, and seaweed play ia 
a thousand fantastic figures on the face of the ocean, sometimes even con¬ 
cealing the solemn depths beneath, so the prose of daily existence mixes 
itself up with the solemn poetry of life here as elsewhere. 

You must have a breakfast, and then you cannot rush out and up Mont 
Blanc ad libitum; you must go up in the regular appointed way, with mule 
and guides. This matter of guides is perfectly systematized here; for, the 
mountains being the great overpowering fact of life, it follows that all that 
enterprise and talent which in other places develop themselves in various 
forms, here take the single channel of climbing mountains. In America, if 
a man is a genius he strikes out a new way of cleaning cotton: but in Cha¬ 
mouni, if he is a genius he finds a new way of going up Mont Blanc. 

As a sailor knows every timber, rope, and spar of his ship, and seems to 
identify his existence with her, so these guides their mountains. The 
mountains are their calendar, their book, their newspaper, their cabinet, 
herbarium, barometer, their education, and their livelihood. 

In fine, behold us about eight o’clock, C., S., W., little Gr., and self, in 
all the bustle of fitting out in the front of our hotel. Two guides, Balmat 
and Alexandre, lead two mules, long-eared, slow-footed, considerate 
brutes, who have borne a thousand ladies over a thousand pokerish 
places, and are ready to bear a thousand more. Equipped with low- 
backed saddles, they stand, their noses down, their eyes contemplatively 
closed, their whole appearance impressingone with an air of practical talent 
and reliableness. Your mule is evidently safe and stupid as any conserva- 





SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


262 

ive of any country; you may bo sure that no erratic fires, no new influx of 
deas will ever lead him to desert the good old paths, and tumble you down 
precipices. The harness they wear is so exceedingly ancient, and has such 
a dilapidated appearance, as if held together only by the merest accident, 
that I could not but express a little alarm on mounting. 

“ Those girths—won’t they break?” 

“0, no, no, mademoiselle!” said the guides. In fact, they seem so 
delighted with their arrangements, that I swallow my doubts in silence. A 
third mule being added for the joint use of the gentlemen, and all being 
equipped with iron-pointed poles, off we start in high spirits. 

A glorious day; air clear as crystal, sky with as fixed a blue as if it 
could not think a cloud ; guides congratulate us, “ Qu'il fait trds beau I” 
We pass the lanes of the village, our heads almost on a level with the flat 
stone-laden roofs ; our mules, with their long rolling pace, like the waves of 
the sea, give to their riders a facetious wag of the body that is quite striking. 
Now the village is passed, and see, a road banded with green ribands of 
turf. S.’s mule and guide pass on, and head the party. G. rides another 
mule. C. and W. leap along trying their alpenstocks ; stopping once in a 
while to admire the glaciers, as their bi'illiant forms appear through the 
pines. 

Here a discussion commences as to where we are going. We had agreed 
among ourselves that we would visit the Mer de Glace. We fully meant to 
go there, and had so told the guide on starting; but it appears he had 
other views for us. There is a regular way of seeing things, orthodox and 
appointed ; and to get sight of anything in the wrong way would be as bad 
as to get well without a scientific physician, or any other irregular piece of 
proceeding. 

It appeared from the representations of the guide that to visit Mer de 
Glace before we had seen La Flegere, would no more answer than for 
Jacob to marry Rachel before he had married Leah. Determined not to 
yield, as we were, we somehow found ourselves vanquished by our guide’s 
arguments, and soberly going off his way instead of ours, doing exactly what 
we had resolved not to do. However, the point being yielded, we proceeded 
merrily. 

As we had some way, however, to trot along the valley before we came 
to the ascending place, I improved the opportunity to cultivate a little the 
acquaintance of my guide. He was a tall, spare man, with black eyes, 
black hair, and features expressive of shrewdness, energy, and determina¬ 
tion. Either from paralysis, or some other cause, he was subject to a spas- j 
modic twitching of the features, producing very much the effect that heat 
lightning does in the summer sky—it seemed to flash over his face and be 
gone in a wink; at first this looked to me very odd, but so much do our 
ideas depend on association, that after I had known him for some time, I 
really thought that I liked him better with than I should without it. It 
seemed to give originality to the expression of his face; he was such a 
good, fatherly man, and took such excellent care of me and the mule, and 
showed so much intelligence and dignity in his conversation, that I could do 
no less than like him, heat lightning and all. This valley of Chamouni, 
through which we are winding now, is everywhere as flat as a parlour 
floor. These valleys in the Alps seem to have this peculiarity—they are not 
hollows, bending downward in the middle, and imperceptibly sloping upward 







THE ASCENT. 263 

into tlie mountains, bnt they lie perfectly flat. The mountains rise up 
around them like walls, almost perpendicularly. 

“ Voilct/ ” says my guide, pointing to the left, to a great bear ravine, 
“down there came an avalanche, and knocked down those houses and 
killed several people.” 

“ Ah ! ” said I; “ but don’t avalanches generally come in the same places 
every year ? ” 

“ Generally, they do.” 

“Why do people build houses in the way of them?” said I. 

“Ah! this was an unusual avalanche, this one here.” 

“Do the avalanches ever bring rocks with them?” 

“No, not often; nothing but snow.” 

“There!” says my guide, pointing to an object about as big as a good- 
sized fly, on the side of a distant mountain, “there’s th e auberge, on La 
Flegere, where we are going.” 

“ Up there?” say I, looking up apprehensively, and querying in my mind 
how my estimable friend the mule is ever to get up there with me on his 
back. 

“0 yes,” says my guide, cheerily, “and the road is up through that 
ravine.” 

The ravine is a charming specimen of a road to be sure, but no matter— 
on we go. 

“There,” says a guide, “those black rocks in the middle of that 
glacier on Mont Blanc are the Grands Mulets, where travellers sleep going up 
Mont Blanc.” 

We wind now among the pine trees till we come almost under the Mer 
de Glace. A most fairy-like cascade falls down from under its pillars of ice 
over the dark rocks—a cloud of feathery foam—and then streams into the 
valley below. 

“ Voil a, L’Arveiron !” says the guide. 

“0, is that the Arveiron ?” say I; “happy to make the ac¬ 
quaintance.” 

But now we cross the Arve into a grove of pines, and direct our way 
to the ascent. We begin to thread a zigzag path on the sides of the 
mountain. 

As mules are most determined followers of precedent, every one keeps his 
nose close by the heels of his predecessor. The delicate point, therefore, 
of the whole operation is keeping the first mule straight. The first mule 
in our party, who rejoiced in the name of Rousse, was selected to head the 
caravan, perhaps because he had more native originality than most mules, 
and was therefore better fitted to lead than to follow. A troublesome 
beast was he, from a habit of abstract meditation which was always liable 
to come on him in most inconvenient localities. Every now and then, 
simply in accordance with his own sovereign will and pleasure, and without 
consulting those behind him, he would stop short and descend into himself 
in gloomy reverie ; not that he seemed to have anything in particular on 
his mind,—at least nothing of the sort escaped his lips,—but the idea would 
seem to strike him all of a sudden that he was an ill-used beast, and that 
he'd be hanged if he went another step. Now, as his stopping stopped all 
the rest, wheresoever they might happen to be, it often occui'red that we 
were detained in most critical localities, just on the very verge of some 


264 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

tremendous precipice, or up a rocky stairway. In vain did the foremost 
driver admonish him by thumping his nose with a sharp stick, and tugging 
and pulling upon the "bridle. Itousse was gifted with one of those long 
India rubber necks that can stretch out indefinitely, so that the utmost 
pulling and jerking only took his head along a little further, but left his 
heels planted exactly where they were before. His eyes, meanwhile, devoutly 
closed, with an air of meekness overspreading his visage, he might have 
stood as an emblem of conscientious obstinacy. 

The fact is, that in ascending these mountains there is just enough 
danger to make one’s nerves a little unsteady ; not by any means as much 
as on board a rail car at home ; still it comes to you in a more demonstrable 
form. Here you are, for instance, on a precipice two thousand feet deep ; 
pine trees, which, when you passed them at the foot you saw were a 
hundred feet high, have dwindled to the size of pins. No barrier of any 
kind protects the dizzy edge, and your mule is particularly conscientious to 
stand on the very verge, no matter how wide the path may be. Now, 
under such circumstances, though your guide assures you that an accident 
or a person killed is a thing unknown, you cannot help seeing that if the 
saddle should turn, or the girths break, or a bit of the crumbling edge 
cave away—all which things appear quite possible—all would be over with 
you. Yet I suppose we are no more really dependent upon God’s provi¬ 
dence in such circumstances, than in many cases where we think ourselves 
most secure. Still the thrill of this sensation is not without its pleasure, 
especially with such an image of almighty power and glory constantly 
before one’s eyes as Mont Blanc. Our own littleness and helplessness, in 
view of these vast objects which surround us, give a strong and pathetic 
force to the words, “ The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath thee 
are the everlasting arms.” 

I like best these snow-pure glaciers seen through these black pines; there 
is something mysterious about them when you thus catch glimpses and see 
not the earthly base on which they rest. I recollect the same fact in seeing 
the Cataract of Niagara through .trees, where merely the dizzying fall of 
water was visible, with its foam, and spray, and rainbows; it produced an 
idea of something supernatural. 

I forgot to say that at the foot of the mountain a party of girls started 
to ascend with us, carrying along bottles of milk and small saucers full of 
mountain strawberries. About half way up the ascent we halted by a 
spring of water which gushed from the side of the mountain, and there we 
found the advantage of these arrangements. The milk is very nice, almost 
as rich as cream. I think they told me it was goat’s milk. The straw¬ 
berries are very small indeed, like our field-strawberries, but not as good. 
One devours them with great relish, simply because the keen air of the 
mountain disposes one to eat something, and there is nothing better to be 
had. They were hearty, rosy-looking girls, cheerful and obliging, w'ore 
the flat Swiss hat, and carried their knitting work along with them, and 
knit whenever they could. 

When you asked them the price of their wares they always said, “ Au 
plaisir ,” i.e., whatever you please; but when we came to offer them money, 
we found “ auplaisir” meant so much at any rate , and as much more as 
they could get. 

There were some children who straggled up with the party, who offered 


tA FliGERE. 


265 


tis flowers and crystals “aw plaisir,” to about tlie same intent and pur¬ 
pose. This cortege of people, wanting to sell you something, accompanies 
you everywhere in the Alps. The guides generally look upon it with com¬ 
placency, and in a quiet way favour it. I suppose that the fact was, these 
were neighbours and acquaintances, and the mutual understanding was, that 
they should help each other. 

It was about twelve o’clock when we gained a bare board shanty as near 
the top of La Flegere as it is possible to go on mules. 

It is rather a discouraging reflection that one should travel three or four 
hours to get to such a desolate place as these mountain tops generally are; 
nothing but grass, rocks and snow; a shanty, with a show case full of 
minerals, articles of carved wood, and engravings of the place for sale. In 
these show cases the Alps are brought to market as thoroughly as human 
ingenuity can do the thing. The chamois figures largely; there are pouches 
made of chamois skin, walking sticks and alpenstocks tipped with chamois 
horn; sometimes an entire skin, horns and all, hanging disconsolately 
downward. Then all manner of crystals, such as are found in the rocks, 
are served up—agate pins, rings, seals, bracelets, cups, and snuff-boxes—• 
all which are duly urged on your attention; so instead of falling into a rap¬ 
ture at the sight of Mont Blanc, the regular routine for a Yankee is to begin 
a bargain for a walking-stick or a snuff-box. 

There is another curious fact, and that is, that every prospect loses by 
being made definite. As long as we only see a thing by glimpses, and im¬ 
agine that there is a deal more that we do not see, the mind is kept in a 
constant excitement and play; but come to a point where you can fairly 
and squarely take in the whole, and there your mind falls listless. It is 
the greatest proof to me of the infinite nature of our minds, that we almost 
instantly undervalue what we have thoroughly attained. This sensation 
afflicted me, for I had been reining in my enthusiasm for two days, as rather 
premature, and keeping myself in reserve for this ultimate display. But 
now I stood thei’e, no longer seeing by glimpses, no longer catching raptu¬ 
rous intimations as I turned angles of rock, or glanced through the windows 
of pine—here it was, all spread out before me like a map, not a cloud, not 
a shadow to soften the outline—there was Mont Blanc, a great alabaster 
pyramid, with a glacier running down each side of it; there was the Arve, 
and there was the Arveiron, names most magical in song, but now literal 
geographic realities. 

But in full possession of the whole my mind gave out like a rocket that 
will not go off at the critical moment. I remember, once after finishing 
a very circumstantial treatise on the nature of heaven, being oppressed 
with a similar sensation of satiety,-—that which hath not entered the heart 
of man to conceive must not be mapped out,—hence the wisdom of the 
dim, indefinite imagery of the Scriptures; they give you no hard outline, 
no definite limit; occasionally they part as do the clouds around these 
mountains, giving you flashes and gleams of something supernatural and 
splendid, but never fully unveiling. 

But La Flegere is doubtless the best point for getting a statistically 
accurate idea of how the Alps lie, of any easily accessible to ladies. 

Our guide pointed out every feature with praiseworthy accuracy. On 
the left of the mountain lies Mer de Glace, with the Arveiron falling from 
it. The Arve crosses the valley below us. The undulations, which, on 


266 


SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


near view, are fifty feet high, seem mere ripples. Its purity is much soiled 
hy the dust and debris which are constantly blown upon it, making it look 
in some places more like mud than ice. Its solid masses contrast with the 
dazzling whiteness of the upper regions, just as human virtue exposed to 
the wind and dust of earth, with the spotless purity of Jesus. 

These mulets, which at this distance appear like black points, are needle 
cliffs rising in a desert of snow. 

Coming down I mentally compared Mont Blanc and Niagara, as one 
should compare two grand pictures in different styles of the same master. 
Both are of that class of things which mark eras in a mind’s history, and 
open a new door which no man can shut. Of the two, I think Niagara is 
the most impressive, perhaps because those aerial elements of foam and 
spray give that vague and dreamy indefiniteness of outline which seems 
essential in the sublime. For this reason, while Niagara is equally impres¬ 
sive in the distance, it does not lose on the nearest approach—it is always 
mysterious, and, thei’efore, stimulating. Those varying spray wreaths, 
rising like Ossian’s ghosts from its abyss; those shimmering rainbows, 
through whose veil you look ; those dizzying falls of water that seem like 
clouds poured from the hollow of God’s hand; and that mystic undertone 
of sound that seems to pervade the whole being as the voice of the Almighty, 
—all these bewilder and enchant the discriminative and prosaic part of us, 
and bring us into that cloudy region of ecstasy where the soul comes nearest 
to him whom no eye hath seen, nor can see. I have sometimes asked my¬ 
self, if, in the countless ages of the luture, the heirs of God shall ever be en¬ 
dowed by him with a creative power, by which they shall bring into being 
things like these ? In this infancy of his existence, man creates pictures, 
statues, cathedrals; but when he is made “ruler over many things,” will 
his Father intrust to him the building and adorning of worlds ? the ruling 
of the glorious dazzling forces of nature ? 

At the foot of the mountain we found again our company of strawberry 
girls, with knitting work and goat’s milk, lying in wait for us. They knew 
we should be thirsty and hungry, and wisely turned the circumstance to 
account. Some of our party would not buy of them, because they said they 
were sharpers, trying to get all they could out of people; but if everybody 
who tries to do this is to be called a sharper, what is to become of respect¬ 
able society, I wonder ? 

On the strength of this reflection, I bought some more goat’s milk and 
strawberries, and verily found them excellent; for, as Shakspeare says, 
“ How many things by season seasoned are.” 

Me returned to our hotel, and after dining and taking a long nap, I 
began to feel fresh once more, for the air here acts like an elixir, so that one 
is able to do twice as much as anywhere else. S. was too much overcome 
to go with us, but the rest of us started with our guides once more at five 
o’clock. This time we were to visit the Cascade des Pelerius, which 
comes next on the orthodox list of places to be seen. 

It was a lovely afternoon; the sun had got over the Mont Blanc side of 
the world, and threw the broad, cool shadow of the mountains quite across 
the valley. What a curious kind of thing shadow is,—that invisible veil, 
falling so evenly and so lightly over all things, bringing with it such 
thoughts of calmness, of coolness, and of rest. I wonder the old Greeks did 
not build temples to Shadow, and call her the sister to Thought and Peace. 





CASCADE DES PELERINS. 


2G7 

The Hebrew writers speak of the “overshadowing of the Almighty;” they 
call his protection “the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.” Even 
as the shadow of Mont Blanc falls like a Sabbath across this valley, so falls 
the sense of his presence across our weary life-road! 

As we rode along under the sides of the mountain, everything seemed so 
beautiful, so thoughtful, and so calm! All the goats and cows were in 
motion along the mountain paths, each one tinkling his little bell and filling 
the rocks with gentle melodies. You can trace the lines of these cattle 
paths, running like threads all along the sides of the mountains. We went 
in the same road that we had gone in the morning. How different it seemed, 
in the soberness of this afternoon light, from its aspect under the clear, 
crisp, sharp light of morning ! 

We pass again through the pine woods in the valley, and cross the Arve; 
then up the mountain side to where a tiny cascade throws up its feathery 
spray in a brilliant jet dean. Everybody knows, even in our sober New 
England, that mountain brooks are a frisky, indiscreet set, rattling, chat¬ 
tering, and capering in defiance of all law and order, tumbling over pre¬ 
cipices, and picking themselves up at the bottom, no whit wiser or more 
disposed to be tranquil than they were at the top; in fact, seeming to grow 
more mad and frolicsome with every leap. Well, that is just the way 
brooks do here in the Alps, and the people, taking advantage of it, have 
built a little shanty, where they show up the capers of this child of the 
mountain, as if he tumbled for their special profit. Here, of course, in the 
shanty are the agates, and the carved work, and so forth, and so on, and 
you must buy something for a souvenir. 

I sat down on the rocks to take, not a sketch—for who can sketch a 
mountain torrent ?—but to note down on paper a kind of diagram, from 
which afterwards I might reconstruct an image of this feathery, frisky son 
of Kuhleborn. 

And while I was doing this, little G. seemed to be possessed by the 
spirit of the brook to caper down into the ravine, with a series of leaps far 
safer for a waterfall than a boy. I was thankful when I saw him safely at 
the bottom. 

After sketching a little while, I rambled off to a point where I looked 
over towards Mont Blanc, and got a most beautiful view of the Glacier de 
Boisson. Imagine the sky flushed with a rosy light, a background of purple 
mountains, with darts of sunlight streaming among them, touching point 
and cliff with gold. Against this background rises the outline of the 
glacier like a mountain of the clearest white crystals, tinged with blue; 
and against their snowy whiteness in the foreground tall forms of pines. I 
rejoiced in the picture with exceeding joy as long as the guide would let me; 
but in all these places you have to cut short your raptures at the proper 
season, or else what becomes of your supper ? 

I went back to the cottage. A rosy-cheeked girl had held our mules, 
and set a chair for us to get off, and now brings them up with “ Au plaisir , 
messieurs ,” to the bearers of our purse. Half a dozen children had been 
waiting with the rose des Alpes, which they wanted to sell us “ au plaisir” 
but which we did not buy. 

These continual demands on the purse look very alarming, only the coin 
you pay is of such infinitesimal value that it takes about a pocket full to 
make a cent. Such a currency is always a sign of poverty. 


2G8 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

We liad a charming ride down the mountain side, in the glow of the 
twilight. We passed through a whole flock of goats which the children 
were driving home. One dear little sturdy Savoyard looked so like a certain 
little Charley at home that I felt quite a going forth of soul to him. As we 
rode on, I thought I would willingly live and die in such a place; but I 
shall see a hundred such before we leave the Alps. 


JOURNAL — (Continued.) 

THE ALTS. 

Thursday, July 7. Weather still celestial, as yesterday. But lo, 
these frail tabernacles betray their earthliness. H. remai-ked at break¬ 
fast that all the “ tired” of yesterday was piled up into to-day. And S. 
actually pleaded inability, and determined to remain at the hotel. 

However, the Mer de Glace must be seen; so, at seven William, 
Georgy, H., and I, set off. When about half way or more up the 
mountain we crossed the track of the avalanches, a strip or trail, which 
looks from beneath like a mower’s swath through a field of tall grass. 
It is a clean path, about fifty rods wide, without trees, with few rocks, 
smooth and steep, and with a bottom of ice covered with gravel. 

“ Hurrah, William,” said I, “ let’s have an avalanche! ” 

“ Agreed,” said he; “ there’s a big rock.” 

“Monsieur le Guide, Monsieur le Guide!” I shouted, “stop a 
moment. H., stop; we want you to see our avalanche.” 

“ No,” cried II., “I will not. Here you ask me to stop, right on 
the edge of this precipice, to see you roll down a stone! ” 

So, on she ambled. Meanwhile William and I were already on foot, 
and our mules were led on by the guide’s daughter, a pretty little lass of 
ten or twelve, who accompanied us in the capacity of mule driver. 

We found several stones of inferior size, and sent them plunging 
down. At last, however, we found one that weighed some two tons, 
which happened to lie so that, by loosening the earth before and under it 
with our alpenstocks, we were able to dislodge it. Slowly, reluctantly, 
as if conscious of the awful race it was about to take, the huge mass 
trembled, slid, poised, and, with a crunch and a groan, went over. At 
the fii'st plunge it acquired a heavy revolving motion, and was soon 
whirling and dashing down, bounding into the air with prodigious leaps, 
and cutting a white and flashing path into the icy way. Then first I 
began to realize the awful height at which we stood above the plain. 
Tracts, which looked as though we could almost step across them, were 
reached by this terrible stone, moving with frightful velocity; and 
bound after bound, plunge after plunge it made, and we held our breath 
to see each tract lengthen out, as if seconds grew into minutes, inches 
into rods ; and still the mass moved on, and the microscopic way length¬ 
ened out, till at last a curve hid its further progress from our view. 

What other cliffs we might have toppled over the muse refuses to tell; 

or our faithful guide returned to say that it was not quite safe; that 
there were always shepherds and flocks in the valley, and that they 










THE ALPS. 2 GO 

might be injured. So we remounted, and soon overtook II. at a foun¬ 
tain, sketching a pine-tree of special physiognomy. 

“ Ah,” said I, “ H., how foolish you were! You don’t know what 
a sight you have lost.” 

“Yes,” said she, “all C. thinks mountains are made for is to roll 
stones down.” 

“And all H. thinks trees made for,” said I, “is to have ugly 
pictures made of them.” 

“ Ay,” she replied, “ you wanted me to stand on the very verge of 
the precipice, and see two foolish boys roll down stones, and perhaps 
make an avalanche of themselves! Now, you know, C., I could not 
spare you; first, because I have not learned French enough yet; and 
next, because I don’t know how to make change.” 

u Add to that,” said I, “the damages to the bergcrs and flocks.” 

“ Yes,” she added; “ no doubt when we get back to the inn we shall 
have a bill sent in, ‘H. B. S. to A. B., Dr., to one shepherd and six 
cow’s, -fr.’ ” 

And so we chatted along until we reached the aubergc, and, after 
resting a few moments, descended into the frozen sea. 

Here a scene opened upon us never to be forgotten. From the 
distant gorge of the everlasting Alpine ranges issued forth an ocean tide, 
in wild and dashing commotion, just as we have seen the weaves upon 
the broad Atlantic, but all motionless as chaos when smitten by the mace 
of Death: and yet, not motionless! This denser medium, this motion¬ 
less mass, is never at rest. This flood moves as it seems to move; these 
waves are actually uplifting out of the abyss as they seem to lift; the 
only difference is in the time of motion, the rate of change. 

These prodigious blocks of granite, thirty or forty feet long and twenty 
feet thick, which float on this grim sea of ice, do float , and are drifting , 
drifting down to the valley below, where, in a few days, they must 
arrive. 

We walked these valleys, ascended these hills, leaped across chasms, 
threw stones down the crevasses, plunged our alpenstocks into the deep 
baths of green water, and philosophized and poetized till we were tired. 
Then we returned to the auberge, and rode down the zigzag to our hotel. 


LETTER XXXIY. 

THE ICE FIELDS. 

My Dear :— 

The Mer de Glace is exactly opposite to La FIdgkre, where we were 
yesterday, and is reached by the ascent of what is called Montanvcrt, or 
Green Mountain. The path is much worse than the other, and in some 
places makes one’s nerves twinge, especially that from which C. 
projected his avalanche. Just think of his w r anting to stop me on the 
edge of a little shelf over that frightful chasm, and take away the guide 
from the head of my mule to help him get up avalanches! 

I warn you, if ever you visit the Alps, that a travelling companion 
who has not the slightest idea what fear is will give you many a coinmo- 




270 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


tion. For instance, this Mer de Glace is traversed everywhere by 
crevasses in the ice, which go to—nobody knows where, down into the 
under world—great, gaping, blue-green mouths of Hades; and C. must 
needs jump across them, and climb down into them, to the mingled 
delight and apprehension of the guide, who, after conscientiously shout¬ 
ing out a reproof, would say to me, in a lower tone, “Ah, he’s the man 
to climb Mont Blanc; he would do well for that!” 

The fact is, nothing would suit our guides better, this clear, bright 
weather, than to make up a party for the top of Mont Blanc. They 
looked longingly and lovingly up to its clear, white fields; they show us 
the stages and resting-places, and seem really to think that it is a waste 
of this beautiful weather not to be putting it to that most sublime 
purpose. 

Why, then, do not we go up ? you say. As to us ladies, it is a thing 
that has been done by only two women since the world stood, and those 
very different in their physique from any we are likely to raise in America, 
unless we mend our manners very much. These two were a peasant 
woman of Chamouni, called Marie de Mont Blanc, and Mademoiselle 
Henriette d’Angeville, a lady whose acquaintance I made in Geneva. 
Then, as to the gentlemen, it is a serious consideration, in the first place, 
that the affair costs about one hundred and fifty dollars apiece, takes 
two days of time, uses up a week’s strength, all to get an experience of 
some very disagreeable sensations, which could not afflict a man in any 
other case. It is no wonder, then, that gentlemen look up to the moun¬ 
tain, lay their hands on their pockets, and say, No. 

Our guide, by the way, is the son, or grandson, of the very first man 
that ascended Mont Blanc, and of course feels a sort of hereditary pro¬ 
perty and pride in it. 

C. spoke about throwing our poles down the pools of water in the ice. 

There is something rather curious about these pools. Our guide saw 
us measuring the depth of one of them, which was full of greenish-blue 
water, colored only by the refraction of the light. He took our long 
alpenstock, and poising it, sent it down into the water, as a man might 
throw a javelin. It disappeared, but in a few seconds leaped up at us 
out of the water, as if thrown back again by an invisible hand. 

A poet would say that a water spirit hurled it back ; perhaps some old 
under-ground gnome, just going to dinner, had his windows smashed by 
it, and sent it back with a becoming spirit, as a gnome should. 

It was a sultry day, and the sun was exercising his power over the 
whole ice fields. I sat down by a great ice block, about fifty feet long, 
to interrogate it, and see what I could make of it, by a cool, confidential 
proximity and examination. The ice was porous and spongy, as I have 
seen it on the shores of the Connecticut, when beginning to thaw out 
under the influence of a spring sun. I could see the little drops of 
water percolating in a thousand tiny streams through it, and dropping 
down on every side. Putting my ear to it, I could hear a fine musical 
trill and trickle, and that still small click and stir, as of melting ice, 
which showed that it was sui’ely and gradually giving way, and flowing 
back again. 

Drop by drop the cold iceberg was changing into a stream, to flow 
down the sides of the valley, no longer an image of coldness and death, 


THE ICE FIELDS. 


271 


but bearing fertility and beauty on its tide. And as I looked abroad 
over all the rifted field of ice, I could see that the same change was 
gradually going on throughout. In every blue ravine you can hear the 
clink of dropping water, and those great defiant blocks oi ice, which 
seen, frozen with uplifted warlike hands, are all softening in that bene¬ 
ficent light, and destined to pass away in that benignant change. So 
let us hope that those institutions of pride and cruelty, which are colder 
than the glacier, and equally vast and hopeless in their apparent magni¬ 
tude, may yet, like that, be slowly and surely passing away. Like the 
silent warfare of the sun on the glacier, is that overshadowing presence 
of Jesus, whose power, so still, yet so resistless, is now being felt 
through all the moving earth. 

Those defiant waves of death-cold ice might as well hope to conquer 
the calm, silent sun, as the old, frozen institutions of human selfishness 
to resist the influence which he is now breathing through the human 
heart, to liberate the captive, to free the slave, and to turn the ice of 
long winters into rivers of life for the new heaven and the new earth. 

All this we know is coming, but we long to see it now, and breathe 
forth our desires with the Hebrew prophet, “ O that thou wouldst rend 
the heavens, that thou wouldst come down, that the mountains might 
flow down at thy presence.” 

I had, while upon this field of ice, that strange feeling which often 
comes over one, at the sight of a thing unusually beautiful and sublime, 
of wanting, in some way, to appropriate and make it a part of myself. 
I looked up the gorge, and saw this frozen river, lying cradled, as it 
were, in the arms of needle-peaked giants of amethystine rock, their 
tops laced with flying silvery clouds. The whole air seemed to be sur¬ 
charged with tints, ranging between the palest rose and the deepest 
violet—tints never without blue, and never without red, but varying in 
the degrees of the two. It is this prismatic hue diffused over eveiy 
object which gives one of the most noticeable characteristics of the Alpine 
landscape. 

This sea of ice lies on an inclined plane, and all the blocks have a 
general downward curve. 

I told you yesterday that the lower part of the glacier, as seen from 
La Fldgbre, appeared covered with dirt. I saw to-day the reason for 
this. Although it was a sultry day in July, yet around the glacier a 
continual high wind was blowing, whirling the dust and debris of the 
sides upon it. Some of the great masses of ice were so completely coated 
with sand as to appear at a distance like granite rocks. The effect of 
some of these immense brown masses was very peculiar. They seemed 
like an army of giants, bending forward, driven, as by an invisible 
power, down into the valley. 

It reminds one of such expressions as these in Job :— 

‘ ‘ Have the gates of death been open to thee, or hast thou seen the 
doors of the shadow of death ?” One should read that sublime poem in 
such scenes as these. I remained on the ice as long as I could persuade 
the guides and party to remain. 

Then we went back to the house, where, of course, we looked at some 
wood work, agates, and all the et cetera. 

Then we turned our steps downward. We went along the side of the 



272 


3UNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


glacier, and I desired to climb over as near as possible, in order to see 
the source of the Arveiron, which is formed by the melting of this 
glacier. Its cradle is a ribbed and rocky cavern of blue ice, and like a 
creature born full of vigour and immortality, it begins life with an impe¬ 
tuous leap. The cold arms of the glaciers cannot retain it; it must go to 
the warm, flowery, velvet meadows below. 

The guide v/as quite anxious about me ; he seemed to consider a lady 
as something that must necessarily break in two, or come apart, like a 
German doll, if not managed with extremest care; and therefore to see 
one bounding through bushes, leaping, and springing, and climbing over 
rocks at such a rate, appeared to him the height of desperation. 

The good, faithful soul wanted to keep me within orthodox limits, and 
felt conscientiously bound to follow me wherever I went, and to offer me 
his hand at every turn. I considered, on the whole, that I ought not to 
blame him, since guides hold themselves responsible for life and limb ; 
and any accident to those under their charge is fatal to their professional 
honour. 

Going down, I held some conversation with him on matters and things 
in general, and life in Chamouni in particular. He inquired with great 
interest about America; which, throughout Europe, I And the working 
classes regard as a kind of star in the west, portending something of good 
to themselves. He had a son, he said, settled in America, near St. 
Louis. 

“And don’t you want to go to America ?” said I, after hearing him 
praise the good land. 

“Ah, no,” he said, with a smile. 

“Why not?” said I; “ it is a much easier country to live in.” 

He gave a look at the circle of mountains around, and said, “I love 
Chamouni.” The good soul! I was much of his opinion. If I had been 
born within sight of glorious Mont Blanc, with its apocalyptic clouds, 
and store of visions, not all the fat pork and flat prairies of Indiana and 
Ohio could tempt me. No wonder the Swiss die for their native valleys ! 
I would if I were they. I asked him about education. He said hi3 
children went to a school kept by Catholic sisters, who taught reading, 
writing, and Latin. The dialect of Chamouni is a patois, composed of 
French and Latin. He said that provision was very scarce in the winter. 
I asked how they made their living when there were no travellers to be 
guided up Mont Blanc. He had a trade at which he wrought in winter 
months, and his wife did tailoring. 

I must not forget to say that the day before there had been some con¬ 
fidential passages between us, which began by his expressing, interropoi- 
tivel}', the opinion that “mademoiselle was a young lady, he supposed.” 
When mademoiselle had assured him, on the contrary, that she was a 
venerable matron, mother of a thriving family, then followed a little com¬ 
parison of notes as to numbers. Madame he ascertained to have six, and 
he had four, if my memory serves me, as it generally does not in matters 
of figures. So you see it is not merely among us New Englanders that 
the unsophisticated spirit of curiosity exists as to one’s neighbours. In¬ 
deed, I take it to be a wholesome development of human nature in 
general. For my part, I could not think highly of anybody who could 





THE DESCENT. 273 

be brought long into connexion with another human being and feel no 
interest to inquire into his history and surroundings. 

As we stopped, going down the descent, to rest the mules, I looked 
up above my head into the crags, and saw a flock of goats browsing. 
One goat, in particular, I remember, had gained the top of a kind of 
table rock, which stood apart from the rest, and which was carpeted with 
lichens and green moss. There he stood, looking as unconscious and 
contemplative as possible, the wicked fellow, with his long beard! He 
knew he looked picturesque, and that is what he stood there for. But, 
as they say in New England, he did it “as nat’ral as a pictur /” 

By the by, the girls with strawberries, milk, and knitting work were 
on hand on the way down, and met us just where a cool spring gushed 
out at the roots of a pine free ; and of course I bought some more milk 
and strawberries. 

How dreadfully hot it was when we got down to the bottom ! for there 
we had the long, shadeless ride home, with the burning lenses of the gla¬ 
ciers concentrated upon our defenceless heads. I was past admiring 
anything, and glad enough for the shelter of a roof, and a place to lie 
down. 

After dinner, although the Glacier de Boisson had been spoken of as 
the appointed work for the afternoon, yet we discovered, as the psalm 
book says, that 

“ The force of nature could no farther go.” 

What is Glacier de Boisson, or glacier anything else, to a person used up 
entirely, with no sense or capability left for anything but a general 
aching? No; the Glacier de Boisson was given up, and I am sorry for it 
now, because it is the commencement of the road up Mont Blanc; and, 
though I could not go to the top thereof, I should like to have gone as 
far as I could. Tn fact, I should have been glad to sleep one night at 
tire Grands Mulets : however, that was impossible. 

To look at the apparently smooth surface of the mountain side, one 
would never think that the ascent could be a work of such difficulty and 
danger. Yet, look at the picture of crossing a crevasse, and compare the 
size of the figures with the dimensions of the blocks of ice. Madame 
d’Angeville told me that she was drawn across a crevasse like this, by 
ropes tied under her arms, by the guides. The depth of some of the cre¬ 
vasses may be conjectured from the fact stated by Agassiz, that the 
thickest parts of the glaciers are over one thousand feet in depth. 


JOURNAL— (Continued.) 

CIIAMOGNI TO MABTIGNY.—HtTMOUKS 01? THE MULES. 

Friday, July 8. —Chamouni to Martigny, by T6te Noir. Mules cn 
twant . We set off in a caleche. After a two hours’ ride we came to 
those mules.” On, to the pass of Tete Noir, by paths the most awful. 
As my mule trod within six inches of the verge, I looked down into au 
abyss, so deep that tallest pines looked like twigs ; yet, on the opposite 

T 





SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


274 

Bide of the pass, I looked up the steep precipice to an equal height, where 
giant trees seemed white fluttering fringe. A dizzy sight. We swept 
round an angle, entered a dark tunnel blasted out through the solid rock, 
emerged, and saw before us, on our right, the far-famed Tete Noir, a , 
black ledge, on whose face, so high is the opposite cliff, the sun never 
shines. A few steps brought us to a hotel. William and I rolled down 
some avalanches, by way of getting an appetite, while dinner was pre¬ 
paring. 

After dinner we commenced descending towards Martigny, alternately 
riding and walking. Here, while I was on foot, my mule took it into 
his head to run away. I was never more surprised in my life than to 
see that staid, solemn, meditative, melancholy beast suddenly perk up 
both his long ears, and hop about over the steep paths like a goat. Not 
more surprised should I be to see some venerable D.D. of Princeton 
leading off a dance in the Jardin Mabille. We chased him here and 
chased him there. We headed him and he headed us. We said, “ Now 
I have 3 7 ou,” and he said, “No, you don’t!” until the affair began to 
grow comically serious. “II se moque de vous /” said the guide. But, 
at that moment, I sprang and caught him by the bridle, when, presto ! 
down went his ears, shut went the eyes, and over the entire gay brute' 
spread a visible veil of stolidity. And down he plodded, slunging, 
shambling, pivotting round zigzag corners, as before, in a style which 
any one that ever navigated such a craft down hill knows without further 
telling. After that, I was sure that the old fellow kept up a “terrible 
thinking, ” in spite of his stupid looks, and knew a vast deal more than 
he chose to tell. 

At length we opened on the Phone valley ; and at seven we reached 
Hotel de la Tour, at Martigny. Here IT. and S. managed to get up two 
flights of stone stairs, and sank speechless and motionless upon their 
beds. I must say they have exhibited spirit to-day, or, as Mr. C. used 
to say, “pluck.” After settling with our guides,—fine fellows, whom 
we hated to lose,—I ordered supper, and sought new guides for our route 
to the convent. Our only difficulty in reaching there, they say, is the 
snow. The guides were uncertain whether mules could get through so 
early in the season. Only to think ! To-day, riding brojlingly through 
liayfields—to-morrow, stuck in snow drifts ! 


LETTER XXXV. 

AMINE MOWERS.—PASS OF THE TETE NOIB. 

Hear Henry:— 

You cannot think how beautiful are these Alpine valleys. Our course, 
all the first morning after we left Chamouni, lay beside a broad, hearty, 
joyous mountain torrent, called, perhaps from the darkness of its waters, 
Eau Noire. Charming meadows skirted its banks. All the way along 
I could think of nothing but Bunyan’s meadows beside the river of life, 
“curiously adorned with lilies.” These were curiously adorned, broi- 
dered, and inwrought with flowers, many and brilliant as those in a 
western prairie, Were X to undertake to describe them, X might make 






ALPINE FLOWERS, 


275 

an inventory as long as Homer’s list of the ships. There was the Can¬ 
terbury bell of our gardeD ; the white meadow sweet; the blue and white 
campanula; the tall, slender harebell, and a little, short-tufted variety 
of the same, which our guide tells me is called “Les Clochettes,” or the 
“little bells”—fairies might ring them, I thought. Then there are 
whole beds of the little blue forget-me-not, and a white flower which 
much resembles it in form. I also noticed, hanging in the clefts of the 
rocks around Tete Noir, the long golden tresses of the laburnum. It 
has seemed to me, when I have been travelling here, as if every flower 
I ever saw in a garden met me somewhere in rocks or meadows. 

There is a strange, unsatisfying pleasure about flowers, which, like 
all earthly pleasure, is akin to pain. What can you do with them?— 
you want to do something, but what? Take them all up, and carry 
them with you? You cannot do that. Get down and look at them? 
What, keep a whole caravan waiting for your observations! That will 
never do. • Well, then, pick and carry them along them with you. That 
is what, in despair of any better resource, I did. My good old guide 
was infinite in patience, stopping at every new exclamation point of 
mine, plunging down rocks into the meadow land, climbing to the points 
of great rocks, and returning with his hands filled with flowers. It 
seemed almost sacrilegious to tear away such fanciful creations, that 
looked as if they were votive offerings on an altar, or, more likely, living 
existences, whose only conscious life was a continued exhalation of joy 
and praise. 

These flowers seemed to me to be earth’s raptures and aspirations—her 
better moments—her lucid intervals. Like everything else in our exist¬ 
ence, they are mysterious. 

In what mood of mind were they conceived by the great Artist? Of 
what feelings of his are they the expression—springing up out of the 
dust, in these gigantic, waste, and. desolate regions, where one would 
think the sense of his almightiness might overpower the soul? Born in 
the track of the glacier and the avalanche, they seem to say to us that 
this Almighty Being is very pitiful, and of tender compassion ; that, in 
his infinite soul, there is an exquisite gentleness and love of the beautiful, 
and that, if we would be blessed, his will to bless is infinite. 

The greatest men have always thought much of flowers. Luther 
always kept a flower in a glass, on his writing-table; and when he was 
waging his great public controversy with Eckius, he kept a flower in his 
hand. Lord Bacon has a beautiful passage about flowers. As to 
Shakspeare, he is a perfect Alpine valley—he is full of flowers; they 
spring, and blossom, and wave in every cleft of his mind. Witness the 
Midsummer Night’s Dream. Even Milton, cold, serene, and stately as 
he is, breaks forth into exquisite gushes of tenderness and fancy when he 
marshals the flowers, as in Lycidas and Comus. 

But all this while the sun has been withering the flowers the guide 
brought me; how they look! blue and white Canterbury bells, harebells, 
clochettes, all bedraggled and wilted, like a young lady who has been up 
all night at a ball. 

“No, no,” say I to the guide; “don’t pick me any more. I dont 
want them. The fact is, if they are pretty I cannot help it. I must 
even take it out in looking as I go by.” 

T 2 


273 


SUNNY MEUOKIEs OE EOEEIGN LANDS. 


One tiling is evident; lie who made the world is no utilitarian, tic 
despiser of the fine arts, and no condcmner of ornament; and those 
religionists, who seek to restrain everything within the limits of cold, 
bare utility, do not imitate our Father in heaven. 

Cannot a bonnet cover your head, without the ribbon and the flowers, 
say they! Yes; and could not a peach tree bear peaches without a 
blossom ? What a waste is all this coloured corolla of flowers, as if the 
seed could not mature without them ! God could have created the fruit 
in good, strong, homely bushel baskets, if he had been so disposed. 

“Turn off my eyes from beholding vanity,” says a good man, when 
he sees a display of graceful ornament. What, then, must he think of 
the Almighty Being, all whose useful work is so overlaid with ornament? 
There is not a fly’s leg, nor an insect’s wing, which is not polished and 
decorated to an extent that we should think positive extravagance in 
finishing up a child’s dress. And can we suppose that this Being can 
take delight in dwellings and modes of life or forms of worship where 
everything is reduced to cold, naked utility? I think not. The instinct 
to adorn and beautify is from him; it likens us to him, and if rightly 
understood, instead of being a siren to beguile our hearts away, it will be 
the closest affiliating band. 

If this power of producing the beautiful has been always so fascinating 
that the human race for its sake have bowed down at the feet even of 
men deficient in moral worth, if we cannot forbear loving the painter, 
poet, and sculptor, how much more shall we love God, who, with all 
goodness, has also all beauty! 

But all this while we have been riding on till we have passed the 
meadows, and the fields, and are coming into the dark and awful pass of 
the Tete Noir, which C. has described to you. 

One thing I noticed which he did not. When we were winding along 
the narrow path, bearing no more proportion to the dizzy heights above 
and below than the smallest insect creeping on the wall, I looked across 
the chasm, and saw a row of shepherds’ cottages perched midway on a 
narrow shelf, that seemed in the distance not an inch wide. By a very 
natural impulse, I exclaimed, “What does become of the little children 
there? I should think they would all fall over the precipice!” 

My guide looked up benevolently at me, as if he felt it his duty to 
quiet my fears, and said in a soothing tone, “ 0, no, no, no!” 

Of course, I might have known that little children have their angels 
there, as well as everywhere else. “When they have funerals there,” 
said he, “they are obliged to carry the dead along that road,” pointing 
to a road that resembled a thread drawn on the rocky wall. 

What a strange idea—such a life and death! It seemed to me, that I 
could see a funeral train creeping along; the monks, with their black 
cloaks, carrying tapers, and singing psalms; the whole procession together 
not larger in proportion than a swarm of black gnats; and yet, perhaps, 
hearts there wrung with an infinite sorrow. In that black, moving 
point, may be a soul, whose convulsions and agonies cannot be measured 
or counted by anything human, so impossible is it to measure souls by 
space. 

What can they think of, these creatures, who are born in this strange 
place half way between heaven and earth, to whom the sound of 



PASS OF THE TETE NOIE. 277 

avalanches is a cradle hymn, and who can never see the sun above the 
top of the cliff on either side, till he really gets into the zenith ? 

What they can he thinking of I cannot tell. Life I suppose, is made 
up of the same prosaic material there that it is every where. The mother 
thinks how she shall make her goat’s milk and black bread hold out. 
The grandmother knits stockings, and runs out to see if Jaques or 
Pierre have not tumbled over the precipice. Jaques or Pierre, in return, 
tangle grandmother’s yarn, upset mother’s milk bucket, pull the goat’s 
beard, tear their clothes to pieces on the bushes and rocks, and, in short, 
commit incredible abominations daily, just as children do every where. 

In the night how curiously this little nest of houses must look, lighted 
up, winking and blinking at the solitary traveller, like some mysterious 
eyes looking out of a great eternity! There they all are fast asleep, Pierre, 
and Jaques, and grandmother, and the goats. In the night they hear a 
tremendous noise, as if all nature was going to pieces ; they half wake, 
open one eye, say, “'Nothing but an avalanche !” and go to sleep again. 

This road, through the pass of the TeteNoir, used to be dangerous ; a 
very narrow bridle-path, undefended by any screen whatever. To have 
passed it in those old days would have had too much of the sublime to 
be quite agreeable to me. The road, as it is, is wide enough, I should 
think, for three mules to go abreast, and ft tunnel has been blasted 
through what seemed the most difficult and dangerous point, and a little 
beyond this tunnel is the Hotel de la Couronne. 

If any body wanted to stop in the wildest and lonesomest place he 
could find in the Alps, so as to be saturated with a sense of savageness 
and desolation, I would recommend this hotel. The chambers are 
reasonably comfortable, and the beds of a good quality—a point which 8. 
and I tested experimentally soon after our arrival. I thought I should 
like to stay there a week, to be left there alone with Nature, and see 
what she would have to say to me. 

But two or three hours’ ride in the hot sun, on a mule’s back, indis¬ 
poses one to make much of the grandest scenes, insomuch that we were 
glad to go to sleep ; and on awaking we were glad to get some dinner, 
such as it was. 

Well, after our dinner, which consisted of a dish of fried potatoes and 
some fossiliferous bread, such as prevails here at the small hotels in 
Switzerland, we proceeded onward. After an intolerably hot ride for 
half an hour we began to ascend a mountain called the Porclaz. 

There is something magnificent about going up these mountains, 
appalling as it seems to one’s nerves, at particular turns and angles of 
the road, where the mule stops you on the very “brink of for ever,” as 
one ot the ladies said. 

Well, at last we reached the top, and began to descend; and there, at 
our leet, as if we were looking down at it out ot a cloud, lay the whole 
beautiful valley of the Rhone. I did not know then that this was one of 
the things put down in the guide book, that we were expected to admire, 
as I found afterwards it was ; but nothing that I saw any where through 
the Alps impressed me as this did. It seemed to me more like the 
vision of “the land that is very far oft” than any thing earthly. I 
can see it now just as distinctly as I saw it then; one of these fiat 
Swiss valleys, green as a velvet-carpet, studded with buildings and villages 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


278 

that looked like dots in the distance, and embraced on all sides by these 
magnificent mountains, of which those nearest in the prospect were dis¬ 
tinctly made out, with their rocks, pine trees, and foliage. The next in 
the receding distance were fainter, and of a purplish green ; the next of 
a vivid purple ; the next, lilac ; while far in the fading view the crystal 
summits and glaciers of the Oberland Alps rose like an exhalation. 

The afternoon sun was throwing its level beams in between these 
many-coloured ranges, and on one of them the ruins of an old Roman 
tower stood picturesquely prominent. The Simplon road could be seen, 
dividing the valley like an ai'row. 

I had gone on quite ahead of my company, and as my mule soberly 
paced downward in the almost perpendicular road, I seemed to be poised 
so high above the enchanting scene that I had somewhat the same sensa¬ 
tion as if I were flying. I don’t wonder that larks seem to get into such 
a rapture when they are high up in the air. What a dreamlike beauty 
there is in distance, disappearing ever as we approach ! 

As I came down towards Martigny into the pasture land of the great 
mountain, it seemed to me that the scenery might pass for that of the 
Delectable Mountains—such beautiful, green, shadowy hollows, amid 
great clumps of chestnut and apple trees, where people were making 
their hay, which smelled so delightfully, while cozy little Swiss cottages 
stood in every nook. 

All were out in the fields, men, women, and children, and in one 
hay field I saw the baby’s cradle—baby, of course, concealed from view 
under a small avalanche of a feather bed, as the general fashion in these 
parts seems to be. The women wore broad, flat hats, and all appeared 
to be working rather lazily, as it was coming on evening. 

This place might have done for Arcadia, or Utopia, or any other of 
those places people think of when they want to get rid of what is, and 
get into the region of what might be. 

I was very far before my party, and now got off my mule, and sat 
down on a log to wait till they came up. Then the drama enacted by 
C.’s mule took place, which he has described to you. I merely saw a 
distant commotion, but did not enter into the merits of the case. 

As they were somewhat slow coming down, I climbed over a log into 
a hayfield, and plucked a long, delicate, white-blossomed vine, with 
which I garlanded the top of my flat hat. 

One is often reminded of a text of Scripture in these valleys—“He 
sendeth springs into the valleys, which run among the hills.” 

Every where are these little, lively, murmuring brooks falling down the 
rocks, prattling through the hayfields, sociably gossiping with each other 
as they go. 

Here comes the party, and now we are going down into Martigny. 
How tired we were! We had to ride quite through the town, then 
through a long, long row of trees, to come to the Hotel de la Tour. 
How delightful it seemed, with its stone entries and staircases, its bed¬ 
rooms as inviting as cleanliness could make them! The eating saloon 
opened on to a beautiful garden filled with roses in full bloom. There 
were little tables set about under the trees for people to take their straw¬ 
berries and cream, or tea, in the open air if they preferred it, a very 
common and pleasant custom of continental hotels. 




HARTIGNY. 


279 


A trim, tidy young woman in a wliite cap, with a bunch of keys at her 
girdle, ushered us up two flights of stone stairs, into a very clean, nice 
apartment, with white muslin window curtains. Now, there is no fea¬ 
ture of a room that speaks to the heart like white muslin window cur¬ 
tain ; they always shed light on the whole scene. 

After resting a while we were called down to a supper of strawberries 
and cream, and nice little rolls with honey. This honey you find at 
every hotel in Switzerland, as one of the inevitables of the breakfast or 
tea table. 

Here we were to part from our Chamouni guides, and engage new 
ones to take us to St. Bernard. I had become so fond of mine that it 
really went quite to my heart; we had an affecting leave-taking in the 
dark stone entry, at the foot of the staircase. In the earnestness of my 
emotion I gave him all the change I had in my pocket, to buy souvenirs 
for his little folks at home, for you know I told you we had compared 
notes on sundry domestic points. I really flattered tnyself that I was 
doing something quite liberal: but this deceitful Swiss coin! I found, 
when I came to tell C. about it, that the whole stock only amounted to 
about twenty cents: like a great many things in this world, it looked 
more than it was. The good man, however, seemed as grateful as if I 
had done something, wished all sorts of happiness to me and my children, 
and so we parted. Peace go with him in his Chamouni cottage. 


J OURN AL —(Continued. ) 

THE SAME. 

Saturday, July 9. Rose in a blaze of glory. Rode five mortal hours 
in a char-a-banc, sweltering under a burning sun. But in less than ten 
minutes after we mounted the mules and struck into the gorge, the ladies 
muffled themselves in thick shawls. We seemed to have passed, almost 
in a moment, from the tropics into the frigid zone. A fur cloak was sug¬ 
gested to me, but as it happened I was adequately calorified without. 
Chancing to be the last in the file, my mule suddenly stopped to eat. 

“ AUez, allez!” said I, twitching the bridle. 

“ I wont,” said he, as plainly as ears and legs could speak. 

“ AUez /” thundered I, jumping off, and bestowing a kick upon his ribs 
which made me suffer if it did not him. 

“I wont,” said he, stuffily. '_ 

“ Wont you?” said I, pursuing the same line of inductive argument, 
with rhetorical flourishes of the bridle. 

“Never!” he replied again, most mulishly. 

“Then if words and kicks wont do,” said I, “letus see what virtua 
there is in stonesand suiting the action to the word, I showered him 
with fragments of granite, as from a catapult. At every concussion he 
jumped and kicked, but kept his nose in the same relative position. I 
redoubled the logical admonition; he jumped the more perceptibly; 
finally, after an unusually affecting appeal from a piece of granite, 
fairly budged, and I seized the bridle to mount. 




280 


SUNNY 3IE1IOKI.ES OP FOKEIGN 1AND9. 


“Not at all,” said lie, wheeling round to his first position, like a true 
proslavery demagogue. 

“Ah,” said I; and went over the same line of argument in a more 
solid and convincing manner. At length the salutary impression seemed 
permanently fastened on his mind; he fairly gave in; and I rode on in 
triumph to overtake the party—having no need of a fur coat. 

Horeb, Sinai, and Hor ! What a wilderness! what a sudden change! 
Nothing but savage, awful precipices of naked granite, snowy fields, and 
verdureless wastes! In every other place in the Alps, we have looked 
upon the snow in the remote distance, to be dazzled with its sheeny 
effulgence—ourselves, meanwhile, in the region of verdure and warmth. 
Here we march through a horrid desert—not a leaf, not a blade of grass 
—over the deep drifts of snow; and we find our admiration turns to 
horror. And this is the road that Hannibal trod, and Charlemagne, and 
Napoleon! They were fit conquerors of Rome, who could vanquish the 
sterner despotism of eternal winter. 

After an houi*’s perilous climbing, we reached at last, the hospice, and 
in five minutes were sitting at the supper table, by a good blazing fire, 
with a lively company, chatting with a gentlemanly abbd, discussing 
figs and fun, cracking filberts and jokes, and regaling ourselves genially. 
But ever and anon drawing, with a half shiver, a little closer to the 
roaring fagots in the chimney, I thought to myself, “ And this is our 
midsummer nights’ dream!” 


LETTER XXXYI. 

ASCENT TQ ST. BERNARD.—TH3 DOGS. 

Dear:— 

During breakfast, we were discussing whether we could get through 
the snow to Mont St. Bernard. Some thought we could, and some 
thought not. So it goes here: we are gasping and sweltering one hour, 
and plunging through snow banks the next. 

After breakfast, we entered the char-a-banc, a crab-like, sideway car¬ 
nage, and were soon on our way. Our path was cut from the breast of 
the mountain, in a stifling gorge, where walls of rock on both sides 
served as double reflectors to concentrate the heat of the sun on our hap¬ 
less heads. To be sure, there was a fine foaming stream at the bottom 
of the pass, and ever so much fine scenery, if we could have seen it; but 
our chars opened but one way, and that against the perpendicular rock, 
close enough, almost, to blister our faces; and the sun beat in so on our 
backs that we were obliged to have the curtain down. Thus we were as 
uncognizant of the scenery we passed through as if we had been nailed 
up in a box. Nothing but the consideration that we were travelling for 
pleasure could for a moment have reconciled us to such inconveniences. 
As it was, I occasionally called out to C., in the back carriage, to be 
sure and take good care of the fur coat; which always brought shouts of 
laughter from the whole party. The idea of a fur coat seemed so 
supremely ridiculous to us, there was no making us believe we ever 
should or could want it. 

That w r as the most unpleasant day’s ride I had in the Alps. Wo 






ASCENT TO ST. BERNARD. 


281 


stopper! to take dinner in the little wretched village of Liddes. You 
have no idea what a disagreeable, unsavoury concern one of these vil¬ 
lages is. Houses, none of which look much better than the log barns in 
our Western States, set close together on either side of a street paved 
with round stones; coarse, sunburnt women, with their necks enlarged 
by the goitre : and dirty children, with tangled hair, and the same dis¬ 
gusting disease,—these were the principal features of the scene. 

This goitre prevails so extensively in this region, that you seldom see 
a person with the neck in a healthy condition. The worst of the matter 
is, that in many cases of children it induces idiocy. Cases of this kind 
were so frequent, that, after a while, whenever I met a child, I began to 
search in its face for indications of the approach of this disease. 

They are called cretins. In many cases the whole head appears swelled 
and deformed. As usual, every one you look at puts out the hand to 
beg. The tavern where we stopped to dine seemed more like a great 
barn, or cavern, than anything else. We go groping along perfectly 
dark stone passages, stumbling up a stone staircase, and gaining light 
only when the door of a kind of reception room opens upon us—a long, 
roughdooking room, without any carpet, furnished with a table, and 
some chairs, and a rude sofa. We were shown to a bed-room, carpetless, 
but tolerably clean, with a very high feather bed in each corner, under a 
canopy of white curtains. 

After dinner we went on towards St. Pierre, a miserable hamlet, where 
the mules were taken out of the chars, and we prepared to mount them. 

It was between three and four o’clock. Our path lay up a desolate 
mountain gorge. After we had ascended some way the cold became 
intense. The mountain torrent, by the sid« of which we went up, leaped 
and tumbled under ribs of ice, and through banks of snow. 

I noticed on either side of the defile that there were high posts put up 
on the rocks, and a cord stretched from one to the other. The object of 
these, my guide told me, was to show the path, when this whole ravino 
is filled up with deep snow. 

I could not help thinking how horrible it must be to go up here in the 
winter. 

Our path sometimes came so near to the torrent as to suggest uncom¬ 
fortable ideas. 

In one place it swept round the point of a rock which projected into 
the foaming flood, so that it was completely under water. I stopped a 
little before I came to this, and told the guide I wanted to get down. 
He was all accommodation, and lifted me from my saddle, and then stood 
to see what I would do next. When I made.him understand that I 
meant to walk round the point, he very earnestly insisted that I should 
get back to the saddle again, and was so positive that I had only to obey. 
It was well I did so, for the mule went round safely enough, and could 
afford to go up to his ankles in water better than I could. 

As we neared the hospice I began to feel the effects of the rarefied ah 
very sensibly. It made me dizzy and sick, bringing on a most acute 
headache—a sharp, knife-like pain. S. was still more affected. 

I was glad enough when the old building came in view, though the 
road lay up an ascent of snow almost perpendicular. 

At the foot of this ascent we paused. Our guides, who looked a little 


2S2 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


puzzled, held a few moments’ conversation, in which the word “fonce” 
was particularly prominent, a word which I took to be equivalent to our 
English “slump;” and indeed the place was suggestive of the idea. 
The snow had so far melted and softened under the influence of the July 
sun, that something of this kind, in going up the ascent, seemed exceed¬ 
ingly probable. The man stood leaning on his alpenstock, looking at 
the thing to be demonstrated. There were two paths, both equally steep 
and snowy. At last he gathered up the bridle, and started up the most 
direct way. The mule did not like it at all, evidently, and expressed his 
disgust by occasionally stopping short and snuffing, meaning probably 
to intimate that he considered the whole thing a humbug, and that in his 
opinion we should all slump through together, and go to—nobody knows 
where. At last, when we were almost up the ascent, he did slump, and 
went up to his breast in the snow; whereat the guide pulled me out of 
the saddle with one hand, and pulled him out of the hole with the other. 
In a minute he had me into the saddle again, and after a few moments 
more we were up the ascent and drawing near the hospice —a great, 
square, strong, stone building, standing alone among rocks and snow¬ 
banks. 

As we drove up nearer I saw the little porch in front of it crowded 
with gentlemen smoking cigars, and gazing on our approach just as any 
set of loafers do from the porch of a fashionable hotel. This was quite a 
new idea of the matter to me. We had been flattering ourselves on per¬ 
forming an incredible adventure; and lo and behold, all the world were 
there waiting for us. 

We came up to the steps, and I was so crippled with fatigue, and so 
dizzy and sick with the thin air, that I hardly knew what I was doing. 
We entered a low-browed, dark, arched, stone passage, smelling dismally 
of antiquity and dogs, when a brisk voice accosted me in the very choicest 
of French, and in terms of welcome as gay and courtly as if we were 
entering a salon. 

Keys clashed, and we went up stone staircases, our entertainer talking 
volubly all the way. As for me, all the French I ever knew was buried 
under an avalanche. C. had to make answer for me, that madame was 
very unwell, which brought forth another stream of condolence as we 
came into a supper room, lighted by a wood fire at one end. The long 
table was stretched out, on which they were placing supper. Here I had 
light enough to perceive that our entertainer was a young man of a lively, 
intelligent countenance, in the Augustine monks’ dz-ess, viz., a long, 
black camlet frock, with a kind of white band over it, which looks much 
like a pair of suspenders worn on the outside. He spoke French very 
purely, and had all that -warm, cordiality and graceful vivacity of manner 
which seems to be peculiar to the French. He appeared to pity us very 
much, and was full of offers of assistance; and when he heard that I had 
a bad headache, insisted on having some tea made for me, the only drink 
on the table being wine. The supper consisted of codfish, stewed apples, 
bread, filberts, and raisins. Immediately after we were shown up stone 
staircases, and along stone passages, to our rooms, of which the most 
inviting feature was two high, single beds covered with white spreads. 
The windows of the rooms were so narrow as to seem only like loopholes. 
There was a looking glass, table, chair, and some glazed prints. 





ITALY. 


283 


A good old woman came to see if we wanted anything. I thought, 
as I stretched myself in the bed, with feathers under me and feathers 
over me, what a heaven of rest this place must have seemed to poor tra¬ 
vellers benighted and perishing in the snow. In the morning I looked 
out of my loophole on the tall, grim rocks, and a small lake frozen and 
covered with snow. “Is this lake always frozen?” said I to the old 
serving woman who had come to bring us hot water for washing. 

“Sometimes,” says she, “about the latter part of August, it is 
thawed.” 

I suppose it thaws the last of August, and freezes the first of Sep¬ 
tember. 

After dressing ourselves we crept down stairs in hopes of finding the 
fire which we left the night before in the sitting-room. No such thing. 
The sun was shining, and it was what was called a warm day, that is to 
say, a day when a little thaw trickles down the south side of snow banks; 
so the fire was out, and the windows up, and our gay Augustine friend 
coming in, congratulated us on our charming day. 

The fireplace was piled up with wood and kindlings ready to be lighted 
in the evening ; but being made to understand that it was a very sultry 
day, we could not, of course, suggest such an extravagance as igniting 
the tempting pile—an extravagance, because every stick of wood has to 
be brought on the backs of mules from the valleys below, at a very great 
expense of time and money. 

The same is true of provisions of all sorts, and fodder for cattle. 

Well, after breakfast, I went to the front porch to view the prospect. 
And what did I see there? Banks of dirty, half-melted snow, bones, 
and scraps of offal, patches of bare earth, for a small space, say about 
fifty feet round, and then the whole region shut in by barren, inaccessible 
rocks, which cut off all view in every direction. 

Along by the frozen lake there is a kind of causeway path made for a 
promenade, where one might walk to observe the beauties of the season, 
and our cheery entertainer offered to show it to us ; so we walked out 
with him. Under the rocks in one place he showed us a little plat, 
about as large as a closet door, which, he said, laughing, was their garden. 

I asked him if any thing ever really grew there. He shrugged his 
shoulders, and said, “ Sometimes.” 

We pursued this walk till we came to the end of the lake, and there he 
showed me a stone pillar. 

“There,” said he, “beyond that pillar is Italy.” 

“Well,” said I, “I believe I shall take a trip into Italy.” So, as h® 
turned back to go to the house, W. and I continued on. We went some 
way into Italy, down the ravine, and I can assure you I was not parti¬ 
cularly struck with the country. 

I observed no indications of that superiority in the fine arts, or of that 
genial climate and soil, of which I had heard so much. W. and I agreed 
to give ourselves airs on this subject whenever the matter of Italy was 
introduced, and to declare that we had been there, and had seen none of 
the things of which people write in books. 

“ What a perfectly dismal, comfortless place!” said I; but climbing 
up the rocks to rest me in a sunny place, I discovered that they were all 
enamelled with the most brilliant flowers. 



281 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


In particular I remarked beds of velvet moss, which bore a pink 
blossom. Then there was a kind of low, starry gentian, of a bright 
metallic blue ; I tried to paint it afterwards, but neither ultramarine nor 
any colour I could find would represent its brilliancy ; it was a kind of 
living brightness. I examined the petals to see how this effect was pro¬ 
duced, and it seemed to be by a kind of prismatic arrangement of the 
small round particles of which they were composed. I spread down my 
pocket handkerchief, and proceeded to see how many varieties I could 
gather, and in a very small circle W. and I collected eighteen. Could I 
have thought, when I looked from my window over this bleak region, 
that anything so perfectly lovely as this little purple witch was to be found 
there ? It was quite a significant fact. There is no condition of life, 
probably, so dreary that a lowly and patient seeker cannot find its 
flowers. I began to think that I might be contented even there. But 
while I was looking I was so sickened by headache, and disagreeable 
feelings arising from the air, that I often had to lie down on the sunny 
side of the bank. W., I found, was similarly troubled ; he said he really 
thought in the morning he was going to have a fever. We went back to 
the house. There -were services in the chapel; I could hear the organ 
pealing, and the singers responding. 

Seven great dogs were sunning themselves on the porch, and as I 
knew it was a subject particularly interesting to you, I made minute in¬ 
quiries respecting them. Like many other things, they have been much 
overstated, I think, by travellers. They are of a tawny-yellow colour, 
short haired, broad chested, and strong limbed. As to size, I have seen 
much larger Newfoundland dogs in Boston. I made one of them open 
his mouth, and can assure you it was black as night; a fact which would 
seem to imply Newfoundland blood. In fact the breed originally from 
Spain is supposed to be a cross between the Pyrenean and the Newfound¬ 
land. The biggest of them was called Pluto. 

Por my part, I was a little uneasy among them, as they went wallop¬ 
ing and frisking around me, flouncing and rolling over each other on the 
stone floor, and making, every now and then, the most hideous noises 
that it ever came into a dog’s head to conceive. 

As I saw them biting each other in their clumsy frolics, I began to be 
afraid lest they should take it into their heads to treat me like one of the 
famity, and so stood ready to run. 

The man who showed them wished to know if I should like to see some 
puppies; to which, in the ardour of natural history, I assented; so he 
opened the door of a little stone closet, and sure enough there lay madam 
in state, with four little, blind, enubbed-nosed pledges. As the man 
picked up one of these, and held it up before me in all the helplessness of 
infancy, looking lor all the world like a roly-poly pudding with a short 
tail to it, I could not help querying in my mind, are you going to be a 
St. Bernard dog? 

One of the large dogs, seeing the door open, thought now was a good 
time to examine the premises, and so walked briskly into the kennel, but 
was received by the amiable mother with such a snift of the nose as sent 
him howling back into the passage, apparently a much wiser and better 
dog than he had been before. Their principal use is to find paths in the 
deep snow when the fathers go out to look for travellers, as they always 










THE HOGS. 


2S5 

do in stormy weather. They are not longlived ; neither man nor animal 
can stand the severe temperature and the thin air for a long time. Many 
of the dogs die from diseases of the lungs and rheumatism, besides those 
killed by accidents, such as the failing of avalanches, &c. A little while 
ago so many died that they were fearful of losing the breed altogether, 
and were obliged to recruit by sending down into the valleys for some 
they had given away. One of the monks told us that, when they went 
out after the dogs in the winter storms, all they could see of them was 
their tails moving along through the snow. The monks themselves can 
stand the climate but a short time, and then they are obliged to go down, 
and live in the valleys below, while others take their places. 

They told us that there were over a hundred people in the hospice when 
we were there. They were mostly poor peasants and some beggars. 
One poor man came up to me, and uncovered his neck, which was a 
most disgusting sight', swollen with goitre. I shut my eyes, and turned 
another w^ay, like a bad Christian, while our Augustine friend walked 
up to him, spoke in a soothing tone, and called him “my son.” He 
seemed very loving and gentle to all the poor, dirty people by whom we 
W'ere surrounded. 

I went into the chapel to look at the pictures. There was St. Bernard 
standing in the midst of a desolate, snowy w r aste, with a little child on 
one arm and a great dog beside him. 

This St. Bernard, it seems, was a man of noble family, who lived nine 
hundred and sixty-two years after Christ. Almost up to that time a 
temple to Jupiter continued standing on this spot. It is said that the 
founding of this institution finally rooted out the idolatrous worship. 

On Monday we returned to Martigny, and obtained a voiturc for Ville- 
neuve. Drove through the beautiful Rhone valley, past the celebrated 
fall of the Pissevache, and about five o'clock reached the Hotel Byron, 
on the shore of the lake. 


LETTER XXXVII. 

CASTLE CEILLON,—BOXNEVARD.—MONT BLANC FROM GENEVA.—LUTHER AND CALVIN. 

—MADAME DE WETTE.—H. FAZY. 

Hotel Byron. 

My dear :— 

Here I am, sitting at my window, overlooking Lake Leman. Castle 
Chillon, with its old conical towers, is silently pictured in the still waters. 
It has been a day of a thousand. We took a boat, with two oarsmen, 
and passed leisurely along the shores, under the cool, drooping branches 
of trees, to the castle, which is scarce a stone’s throw from the hotel. 
We rowed along, close under the walls, to the ancient moat and draw¬ 
bridge. There I picked a bunch of blue bells, “les clochettes,” which 
were hanging their aerial pendants from every crevice—some blue, some 
white. 

I know not why the old buildings and w r alls in Europe have this 
vivacious habit of shooting out little flowery ejaculations and soliloquies 
at every turn. One sees it along through France and Switzerland, 
everywhere j but never, that I remember, in America. 






£36 SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 

On the side of the castle wall, in a large white heart, is painted the 
inscription. Liberie, et Patrie! 

We rowed along, almost touching the castle rock, where the wall 
ascends perpendicularly, and the water is said to be a thousand feet deep. 
We passed the loopholes that illuminate the dungeon vaults, and an old 
arch, now walled up, where prisoners, after having been strangled, were 
thrown into the lake. 

Last evening we walked over the castle. An interesting Swiss woman, 
who has taught herself English for the benefit of her visitors, was our 
cicerone. She seemed to have all the old Swiss vivacity of attachment 
for “ liberte et patrie!” 

She took us first into the dungeon, with the seven pillars, described by 
Byron. There was the pillar to which, for protecting the liberty of 
Geneva, Bonnevard was chained. There the Duke of Savoy kept him 
for six years, confined by a chain four feet long. He could take only 
three steps, and the stone floor is deeply worn by the prints of those 
weary steps. Six years is so easily said; but to live them, alone, help¬ 
less, a man burning with all the fires of manhood, chained to that pillar 
of stone, and those three unvarying steps ! Two thousand one hundred 
and ninety days rose and set the sun, while seedtime and harvest, winter 
and summer, and the whole living world went on over his grave. For 
him no sun, no moon, no star, no business, no friendship, no plans— 
nothing! The great millstone of life emptily grinding itself away! 

What a power of vitality was there in Bonnevard, that he did not sink 
in lethargy, and forget himself to stone ! But he did not; it is said that 
when the victorious Swiss army broke in to liberate him, they cried— 

“ Bonnevard, you are free ! ” 

“Et Geneve!” 

“ Geneva is free also! ” 

You ought to have heard the enthusiasm with which our guide told 
this story! 

Near by are the relics of the cell of a companion of Bonnevard, who 
made an ineffectual attempt to liberate him. On the wall are still seen 
sketches of saints and inscriptions by his hand. This man one day over¬ 
came his jailer, locked him in his cell, ran into the hall above, and threw 
himself from a window into the lake, struck a rock, and w r as killed 
instantly. One of the pillars in this vault is covered with names. T 
think it is Bonnevard’s pillar. There are the names of Byron, Hunt, 
Schiller, and many other celebrities. 

After we left the dungeons we went up into the judgment hall, where 
prisoners were tried, and then into the torture chamber. Here are the 
pulleys by which limbs Svere bi’oken ; the beam, all scorched by the irons 
by which feet were burned; the oven where the irons w r ere heated ; 
and there was the stone where they were sometimes laid to be strangled, 
after the torture. On that stone, our guide told us, two thousand Jews, 
men, women, and children, had been put to death. There was also, 
high up, a strong beam across, where criminals were hung; and a door, 
now walled up, by which they were thrown into the lake. I shivered. 
“ ’Twas cruel,” she said; “’twas almost as cruel as your slavery in 
America.” 

Then she took us into a tower where was the oubliette. Here the 





CHlLLOtf. 


287 

unfortunate prisoner was made to kneel before an image of the Virgin, 
while the treacherous floor, falling beneath him, precipitated him into a 
well forty feet deep, where he was left to die of broken limbs and starva¬ 
tion. Below this well was still another pit, filled with knives, into 
which, when they were disposed to a merciful hastening of the torture, 
they let him fall. The woman has been herself to the bottom of the first 
dungeon, and found there bones of victims. The second pit is now 
walled up. , 

“All this,” she said, “was done for the glory of God in the good old 
j times.” 

The glory of God ! What has not been done in that name ! Yet he 
keeps silence ; patient he watches ; the age-long fever of this world, the 
J delirious night, shall have a morning. Ah, there is an unsounded 
] depth in that word which says, “He is long-suffering.” This it must 
I be at which angels veil their faces. 

On leaving the castle we offered the woman the customary gratuity. 
“No;” she would “have the pleasure of showing it to me as a friend.” 
j And she ran into a charming little garden, full of flowers, and brougli$ 
| me a bouquet of lilies and roses, which I have had in my room all day. 

To-night, after sunset, we rowed to Byron’s “little isle,” the only one 
in the lake. O, the unutterable beauty of these mountains—great, 
purple waves, as if they had been dashed up by a mighty tempest, crested 
with snow-like foam ! this purple sky, and crescent moon, and the lake 
gleaming and shimmering, and twinkling stars, while far off up the sides 
of a snow-topped mountain alight shines like a star—some mountaineer’s 
candle, I suppose. 

In the dark stillness we rowed again over to Chillon, and paused 
under its walls. The frogs were croaking in the moat, and we lay 
rocking on the wave, and watching the dusky outline of the towers and 
turrets. Then the spirit of the scene seemed to wrap me round like a 
cloak. 

Back to Gereva again. This lovely place will ever leave its image on 
my heart. Mountains embrace it. Strength and beauty are its habita¬ 
tion. The Salbve is a peculiar looking mountain, striped with different 
strata of rock, which have a singular effect in the hazy distance; so is 
the Mole, with its dark marked outline, looking blacker in clear weather, 
from being set against the snow mountains beyond. 

There is one peculiarity about the outline of Mont Blanc, as seen from 
Geneva, which is quite striking. There is in certain positions the profile 
of a gigantic head visible, tying with face upturned to the sky. Mrs. F. 

1 was the first to point it out to me, calling it a head of Napoleon’. Like 
many of these fanciful profiles, I was some time in learning to see it; 
and after that it became to me so plain that I wondered I had not seen 
it before. I called it not Napoleon, however, but as it gained on my 
imagination, tying there so motionless, cold, and still, I thought of Pro¬ 
metheus on Mount Caucasus ; it seemed as if, his sorrows ended, he had 
sunk at last to a dreamless sleep on that snowy summit. 

We walked out the other evening, with M. Fazy, to a beautiful place, 
where Servetus was burned. Soft, new-nTown meadow grass carpets it, 
and a solemn amphitheatre of mountains, glowing in the evening sky, 
looked down—Mont Blanc, the blue-black Mole, the SaleyeJ Never 






288 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANES. 


was deed done in a more august presence chamber! Ere this these two 
may have conferred together of the ti-agedy, with far other thoughts 
than then. 

The world is always unjust to its progressive men. If one fragment 
of past absurdity cleaves to them, they celebrate the absurdity as a per¬ 
sonal peculiarity. Hence we hear so much of Luther’s controversial 
harshness, of Calvin’s burning Servetus, and of the witch persecutions 
of New England. 

Luther was the poet of the reformation, and Calvin its philosopher. 
Luther fused the mass, Calvin crystallized. He who fuses makes the 
most sensation in his day; he who crystallizes has a longer and wider 
power. Calvinism, in its essential features, never will cease from the 
earth, because the great fundamental facts of nature are Calvinistic, and 
men with strong minds and wills always discover it. The predestination 
of a sovereign will is written over all things. The old Greek tragedians 
read it, and expressed it. So did Mahomet, Napoleon, Cromwell. 
Why? They found it so by their own experience; they tried the forces 
of nature enough to find their strength. The strong swimmer who 
breasts the Rhone is certain of its current. But Ranke well said, that 
in those days when the whole earth was in arms against these reformers, 
they had no refuge except in exalting God’s sovereignty above all other 
causes. To him who strives in vain with the giant forces of evil, what 
calm in the thought of an overpowering will, so that will be crowned by 
goodness! However grim, to the distrusting, looks this fortress of 
sovereignty in times of flowery ease, yet in times when “ the waters roar 
and are troubled, and the mountains shake with the swelling thereof,” 
it has been always the refuge of God’s people. All this I say, while I 
fully sympathize with the causes which incline many fine and beautiful 
minds against the system. 

The wife of He Wette has twice called upon me — a good, plain, 
motherly, pious old lady as any in Andover. She wanted me to visit 
her daughter, who, being recently deprived of her only little girl, has 
since been wholly lost to life. The only thing in which she expressed 
any interest was Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and she was earnestly desiring to 
see me. So I went. I found Mrs. He Wette in a charming saloon, 
looking out upon the botanic gardens. A very beautiful picture of a 
young lady hung on the wall. “ That was my poor Clara,” said Mrs, 
He Wette, “ but she is so altered now!” 

After a while Clara came in, and I was charmed at a glance — a most 
lovely creature, in deep mourning, with beautiful manners; so much 
interested for the poor slaves! so full of feeling, inquiring so anxiously 
what she could do for theml 

“ Ho ministers ever hold slaves?” she said. 

“ 0, yes; many.” 

“0! But how can they be Christians?” 

“ They reason in this way,” said I; “they say, ‘These people are 
not fit to take care of themselves; therefore we must hold them, and 
educate them, till they are fit to be free.’” 

“ I wish,” said she, looking very pretty and fierce, “ that they might 
all be sold themselves, and see how they w r ouldlike it.” 


M. FAZY. 289 

Her husband, who speaks only French, now asked what we were 
talking about, and she repeated the conversation. 

“ 1 would shoot every one of them,” said he, with a significant move¬ 
ment. 

“ Now, see,” said Mrs. De Wette, “ Clara would sell them, and her 
husband would shoot them; for my part, I would rather convert them.” 
We all laughed at this sally. 

“ Ah,” said Clara, “ the last thing my little darling looked at was the 
pictures in Uncle Tom; when she came to the death of Eva, she said, 
‘ Now I am weary, I will go to sleep;’ and so closed her eyes, and never 
opened them more.” 

Clara said she had met the Key in Turin and Milan. The Cabin is 
made a school reading book in Sardinia, for those who wish to learn 
English, with explanatory notes in Italian. The feeling here on the 
continent for the slave is no less earnest than in England and Scotland. 
I have received most beautiful and feeling letters from many Christians 
of Switzerland, which I will show you. 

I am grieved to say, that there are American propagandists of slavery 
here, who seem to feel it incumbent on them to recognise this hideous 
excrescence as a national peculiarity, and to consider any reflection upon 
it, on the part of the liberty-loving Swiss, as an insult to the American 
nation. The sophisms by which slaveholding has been justified from the 
Bible have left their slimy track even here. Alas! is it thus America 
fulfils her high destiny? Must she send missionaries abroad to preach 
despotism ? 

Walking the other evening with M. Fazy, who is, of course, French 
in education, we talked of our English literature. He had Hamlet in 
French—just think of it. One never feels the national difference so 
much as in thinking of Shakspeare in French! Madame de Stael says 
of translation, that music written for one instrument cannot be played 
upon another. I asked if he had read Milton. 

“ Yes.” 

“ And how did you like him?” 

“ O,” with a kind of shiver, “ he is so cold!” 

Now, I felt that the delicate probe of the French mind had dissected 
out a shade of feeling of which I had often been conscious. There is a 
coldness about all the luscious exuberance of Milton, like the wind that 
blows from the glaciers across these flowery valleys. How serene his 
angels in their adamantine virtue! yet what sinning, suffering soul could 
find sympathy in them! The utter want of sympathy for the fallen 
angels, in the whole celestial circle, is shocking. Satan is the only one 
who weeps 

“ For millions of spirits for his fault amerced, 

And from eternal splendours flung.” 

God does not care, nor his angels. Ah, quite otherwise is God re¬ 
veal ed in Him who wept over Jerusalem, and is touched with the'feeling 
of our infirmities. 

I went with Mrs. Fazy the other night to call on Mrs. C.’s friend, Pastor 
C. They were so affectionate, so full of beautiful kindness! The French 

U 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


290 

language sounds sweetly as a language of affection and sympathy: with 
all its tart vivacity it has a richness in the gentler world of feeling. Then, 
in the evening, I was with a little circle of friends at the house of the 
sister of Merle d’Aubign^, and they prayed and sang together. It was 
beautiful. The hymn was one on the following of Jesus, similar to that 
German one of old Godfrey Arnold, which is your favourite. These 
Christians speak with deep sorrow of our slavery ; it grieves, it distresses 
them, for the American church has been to them a beloved object. They 
have leaned towards it as a vine inclines towards a vigorous elm. To 
them it looks incomprehensible that such a thing could gain strength in 
a free Christian republic. 

I feel really sorry that I have had to withdraw so much from proffered 
kindness here, and to seem unwilling to meet feeling; but so it has been. 
Yet, to me, apparently so cold, many of these kind Genevese have shown, 
most considerate attention. Fruit and flowers have been sent in anony¬ 
mously ; and one gentleman offered to place his garden at my disposal 
for walks, adding that, if I wished to be entirely private, neither he nor 
his family w T ould walk there. This, I thought, was too much kindness. 

One social custom here is new to me. The husband, by marriage, 
takes the wife’s name. Thus M. Fazy, our host, is known as M. Fazy 
Meyer—Meyer being his wife’s name—a thing which at first perplexed 
me. I was often much puzzled about names, owing to this circumstance. 

From the conversation I hear I should think that democracy was not 
entirely absolute in Switzerland. I hear much about patrician families, 
particularly at Berne, and these are said to be quite exclusive; yet that 
the old Swiss fire still burns in Switzerland, I see many indications. 

The other day I visited Beautte’s celebrated watch and jewellery store, 
and saw all the process of making watches, from the time the case is cut 
from a sheet of gold, on through the enamelling, engraving, and finishing. 
Enamel is metallic paint, burned on in a furnace. Many women are 
employed in painting the designs. The workmen looked intelligent and 
thoughtful, like men who can both think and do. Some glimpses showed 
their sympathy with republicanism—as one should see fire through a 
closed door. 

1 have had full reason to observe that difference between Protestant 
and Catholic cantons on which Horace Greeley commented while here. 
'They are as different as our slave and free states, and in the same ways. 
'Geneva seems like New England—the country around is well cultivated, 
and speaks of thrift. But still, I find no land, however beautiful, that 
can compare with home—Andover Hill, with its arched elms, its blue 
distance pointing with spires, its Merrimac crowned with labour palaces, 
and, above all, an old stone house, brown and queer, &c. Good bye. 


JOURNAL— (Continued.) 

ASEEENADE.*—LArSAOE.—EEEyBUKG.—BEEXE.—THE STAtBBACH.—GEIXBELWALD 

Thursday, July 14. Spent a social evening at Mrs. La Y.’s, on the 
lake shore. Mont Blanc invisible. We met M. Merle d’Aubignd, 
brother of our hostess, and a few other friends. Returned home, and 



A SEBENADE. 


201 

listened to a serenade to II. from a glee club of fifty performers, of the 
working men of Geneva. The songs were mostly in French, and the 
burden of one of them seemed to be in words like these:— 

“ Travaillons, travaillez, 

Pour la liberte!” 

Friday, July 15. Mrs. C. and her two daughters are here from Paris. 
They intend to come to Madame Fazy till we leave. 

Saturday, July 16. Our whole company resorted to the lake, and 
spent the forenoon on its tranquil waters. If this life seem idle, we 
remember that there must be valleys between mountains; and as, in 
those vales, tired mountaineers love to rest, so we, by the silver shore of 
summer Leman, wile away the quiet hours, in this interval, between 
great mountain epochs Chamouni and Oberland. 

Monday, July 18. Weather suspicious. Stowed ourselves and our 
baggage into our voiture, and bade adieu to our friends and to Geneva. 
Ah, how regretfully! From the market-place we earned away a basket 
of cherries and fruit, as a consolation. Dined at Lausanne, and visited 
the cathedral and picture gallery, where was an exquisite Eva. Slept at 
Meudon. 

Tuesday, July 19. Rode through Pay erne to Freyburg. Stopped at 
the Zahringer Hof—most romantic of inns. Our gentlemanly host 
ushered us forth upon a terrace overhanging the deep gorge of the 
Saarine, spanned, to the right and left of us, by two immense suspension 
bridges, one of which seemed to spring from the hotel itself. Rums of 
ancient walls and watch towers lined the precipice. 

After dinner we visited the cathedral to hear the celebrated organ. 
The organist performed a piece descriptive of a storm. We resigned 
ourselves to the illusion. Low, mysterious wailings, swelling, dying 
away in the distance, seeming at first exceedingly remote, drew gradually 
near. Fitful sighings and sobbings rose, as of gusts of wind; then low, 
smothered roarings. Anon came flashes of lightning, rattling hail, and 
driving rain, succeeded by bursts of storm, and howlings of a hurricane 
—fierce, furious, frightful. I felt myself lost in a snow storm in winter, 
on the pass of Great St. Bernard. 

One note there was of strange, terrible clangor—bleak, dark, yet of a 
lurid fire—that seemed to prolong itself through all the uproar, like a 
note of doom, cutting its way to the heart as the call of the last archangel. 
Yes, I felt myself alone, lost in a boundless desert, beyond the abodes of 
man; and this was a call of terror—stern, savage, gloomy—the call as 
of fixed fate and absolute despair. 

Then the storm died away, in faint and far-off murmurs; and we 
broke, as it were, from the trance, to find ourselves, not lost, but here 
among the living. We then drove quietly to Berne. 

Wednesday, July 20. Examined, not the lions, but the bears of 
Berne. It is indeed a city of bears, as its name imports. There are 
bears on its gates, bears on its fountains, bears in its parks and gardens, 
bears everywhere. But, though Berne rejoices in a fountain adorned 
with an image of Saturn eating children, nevertheless, the old city— 
quaint, quiet, and queer—looks as if, bear-like, it had been hybernatin 
good-naturedly for a century, and were just about to wake up. 


292 SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 

Engaged a voiture, and drove to Thun. Dined, and drove by the 
shore of the lake to Interlachen, arriving just after a brilliant sunset. 

Thursday, July 21. 8. and G. remained at the Belvedere. W., H., 

and I took a guide and vciture for Lauterbrunn. Here we visited Byron s 
apocalyptic horse-tail waterfall, the 8taubbach. This waterfall is very 
sublime, all except the water and the fall. Whoever has been “under 
the sheet ” at Niagara will not be particularly impressed here. 

Here we crossed the Wengern Alps to Grindelwald. The Jungfrau 
is right over against us—her glaciers purer, tenderer, more dazzlingly 
beautiful, if possible, than those of Mont Blanc. Slept at Grindelwald. 


LETTER XXXVIII. 

WENGERN ALPS.—E LOWERS.— GLACIERS.—THE LIGEB. 

Dear Children :— 

To-day we have been in the Wengern Alps—the scenes described in 
Manfred. Imagine us mounting, about ten o’clock, from the valley of 
Lauterbrunn, on horseback—our party of three—with two guides. V7e 
had first been to see the famous Staubbach, a beautiful, though not sub¬ 
lime, object. Up we began to go among those green undulations which 
form the lower part of the mountain. It is l^dng time ; a bright day ; 
all is cheerful; the birds sing ; men, women, and children are busy in 
the field. Up we go, zigzag; it grows steeper and steeper. Now right 
below me is a field, where men are literally working almost on a perpen¬ 
dicular wall, cutting hay ; now we ai’e so high that the houses in the 
valley look like chips. Here we stand in a place two thousand feet 
above the valley. There is no shield or screen. The horse stands on the 
very edge; the guide scops, lets go his bridle, and composedly commences 
an oration on the scene below. “ O, for mercy’s sake, why do you stop 
here?” Isay. “Pray go on.” He looks in my face, with innocent 
wonder, takes the bridle on his arm, and goes on. 

Now we have come to the little village of Wengern, whence the Wen¬ 
gern Alps take their name. How beautiful! how like fairyland ! Up 
here, midway in air, is a green nook, with undulating dells, and shadowy, 
breezy nests, where are the cottages of the haymakers. The Delectable 
Mountains had no scene more lovely. Each house has its roof heavily 
loaded with stones. “What is that for?” I ask. “ The whirlwinds,” 
says my guide, with a significant turn of his hands. “This is the school 
house,” he adds, as we pass a building larger than the rest. 

Now the path turns and slopes down a steep bank, covered with hay¬ 
cocks, to a little nook below, likewise covered with new hay. If my horse 
is going to throw me anywhere, I wish it may be here: it is not so bad 
a thing to roll down into that hay. But now we mount higher; the 
breezy dells, enamelled with flowers and grass, become fewer; the great 
black pines take their place. Right before us, in the purest white, as 
a bride adorned for her husband, rises the beautiful Juno-frau, wearing 
on her forehead the Silver Horn, and the Snow Horn. The Silver Horn 
is a peak, dazzlingly bright, of snow; audits crest is seen in relief against 
a sky of the deepest blue. 



THE WENGERN ALTS. 


293 


There is something celestial in these mountains. You might think 
such a vision as that to be a bright footstool of Heaven, from which the 
next step would be into an unknown world. The pines here begin to 
show that long white beard of moss which I admire so much in Maine. 
Now, we go right up over their heads. There, the tall pines are under 
our feet. A little more—and now above us rise the stern, naked rocks, 
where only the chamois and the wild goat live. But still, fair as the 
moon, clear as the sun, looks forth the Jungfrau. 

We turn to look down. That Staubbach, which in the valley seemed 
to fall from an immense precipice, higher than we could gaze, is now a 
silver thread, far below our feet; and the valley of Lauterbrunn seems 
as nothing. Only bleak, purplish crags, rising all around us, and silent, 
silver mountains looking over them. 

“ That one directly before you is the Monk,” says C., calling to me 
from behind, and pointing to a great snow peak. 

Our guide, with animation, introduced us by name to every one of 
these snow-white genii—the Ealhorn, the Schi*eckhorn, the Wetterhorn, 
the great Eiger, and I cannot remember what besides. The guides seem 
to consider them all as old friends. 

Certainly nothing could be so singular, so peculiar as this ascension. 
We have now passed the limit of all but grass and Alpine flowers, which 
still, with their infinite variety, embroider the way; and now the auberge 
is gained. Good night, now, and faz’ewell. 

That is to say, there we stopped—on the summit, in fair view of the 
Jungfrau, a wall of rock crowned with fields of eternal snow, whose 
dazzling brightness almost put my eyes out. My head ached too, with 
the thin air of these mountains. I thought I should like to stay one night 
just to hear avalanches fall; but I cannot breathe well here, and there is 
a secret sense of horror about these sterile rocks and eternal snows. So, 
after dinner, I gladly consent to go down to Grindelwald. 

Off we start—I walking—for, to tell the truth, I have no fondness for 
riding down a path as steep in some places as a wall; I leave that to C., 
who never fears anything. So I walked all the way to Grindelwald, nine 
miles of a very rough road- There was a lady with her husband walking 
the same pass, who had come on foot the whole way from Lauterbrunn, 
and did not seem in the least fatigued. My guide exhausted all his elo¬ 
quence to persuade me that it was better to ride; at last I settled him 
by saying,. “ Why, here is a lady who has walked the whole route.” So 
he confined himself after that to helping me find flowers, and carrying 
the handkerchief in which I stowed them. Alas! what herbarium of 
hapless flowers, laid out stark, stiff, and motionless, like beauty on its 
bier, and with horrible long names written under them, can ever give an 
idea of the infinite variety and beauty of the floral crown of these 
mountains! 

The herbarium resembles the bright, living reality no more than the 
morgue at St. Bernard’s is a specimen of mountain travellers. \ et one 
thing an herbarium is good for: in looking at it you can recall how they 
looked, and glowed, and waved in life, with all their silver-crowned 
mountains around them. 

After we arrived at Grindelwald, tired as X was, I made sketches of 





294 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


nine varieties, which I intend to colour as soon as we rest long enough. 
So much I did for love of the dear little souls. 

One noticeable feature is the predominance of yellow flowers. These, 
of various kinds, so abound as to make a distinct item of colouring in 
a distant view. One of the most common is of a vivid chrome yellow, 
sometimes brilliantly striped with orange. 

One thing more as to botanical names. What does possess botanists 
to afflict the most fragile and delicate of earth’s children with such moun¬ 
tainous and unpronounceable names ? Now there was a dear little flower 
that I first met at St. Bernard—a little purple bell, with a fringe; it is 
more particularly beautiful from its growing just on the verge of ava¬ 
lanches, coming up and blossoming through the snow. I send you one in 
this letter, which I dug out of a snow bank this morning. And this fair 
creation—this hope upon a death bed—this image of love unchilled and 
immortal—how I wanted to know it by name ! 

To-day, at the summit house of the mountain, I opened an herbarium, 
and there were three inches of name as hopeless and unpronounceable as 
the German of our guides, piled upon my little flower. I shut the 
herbarium. 

This morning we started early from Grindelwald—that is, by eight 
o’clock. An unclouded, clear, breezy morning, the air full of the sounds 
of cascades, and of the little bells of the herds. As we began to wind 
upward into that delectable region which forms the first stage of ascent, 
I said to C., “ The more of beautiful scenery I see, the more I appreciate 
the wonderful poetry of the Pilgrim’s Progress.” The meadows by the 
Fiver of Life, the Delectable Mountains, the land of Beulah, how often 
have I thought of them! From this we went off upon painting, and then 
upon music, the freshness of the mountain air inspiring our way. At last, 
while we were riding in the very lap of a rolling field full of grass and 
flowers, the sharp blue and white crystals of the glacier rose at once 
before us. 

“0, I want to get down,” said I, “and go near them.” 

Down I did get, and taking what seemed to be the straightest course, 
began running down the hill side towards them. 

“ No, no ! Back, back!” shouted the guide, in unimaginable French 
and German. “Id, id I ” 

I came back; and taking my hand, he led me along a path where 
travellers generally go. I went closer, and sat down on a rock under 
them, and looked up. The clear sun was shining through them; clear and 
blue looked the rifts and arches, all dripping and beautiful. We went 
down upon them by steps which a man had cut in the ice. There was 
one rift of ice we looked into, which was about fifty feet high, going up 
into a sharp arch. The inside of this arch was clear blue ice, of the colour 
of crystal of blue vitriol. 

Here, immediately under, I took a rude sketch just to show you how 
a glacier looks close at hand. 

G. wanted, as usual, to do all sorts of improper things. He wanted 
to stone down blocks of ice, and to go inside the cave, and to go down 
into holes, and insisted on standing particularly long on a spot which 
the guide told him was all undermined, in order that he might pelt a cliff 
of ice that seemed inclined to fall, and hear it smash. 


THE GLACIESS. 


The poor guide was as distressed as a hen when her ducks take to the 
water ; he ran, and called, and shouted, in German, French, and English, 
and it was not till C. had contrived to throw the head of the little boy’s 
Aatchet down into a crevasse, that he gave up. There were two francs to 
pay for this experiment ; but never mind ! Our guide book says that a 
clergyman of V evay, on this glacier, fell into a crevasse several hundred 
feet deep, and was killed ; so I was glad enough when C. came off safe. 

He ought to have a bell on his neck, as the cows do here ; and apropos 
to this, we leave the glacier, and ride up into a land of pastures. Here 
we see a lmndred cows grazing in the field—the field all yellow with 
buttercups. They are a very small breed, prettily formed, and each had 
on her neck a bell. How many notes there are in these bells ! quite a 
diapason—some very deep toned, and so on up to the highest! how pret¬ 
tily they sound, all going together ! The bells are made of the best of 
metal, for the tone is of an admirable quality. 

0, do look off there, on that patch of snow under the Wetterhorn ! It 
is all covered with cows ; they look no bigger than insects. “ What makes 
them go there ?” said we to our guides. 

“ To be cool,” was the answer. 

Hark ! what’s that ? a sudden sound like the rush of a cascade. 

“Avalanche! avalanche!” exclaimed the guide. And now, pouring 
down the sides of the Wetterhorn, came a milk-white cascade, looking 
ju3t like any other cascade, melting gracefully over the rocks, and spread¬ 
ing, like a stream of milk, on the soiled snow below. 

This is a summer avalanche—a mere bijou —a fancy article, got up, or 
rather got down, to entertain travellers. The winter avalanches are 
quite other things. Witness a little further in our track, where our guide stops 
us, and points to a place where all the pines have been broken short off 
by one of them. Along here some old ghostly pines, dead ages ago, their 
white, ghastly skeletons bleached by a hundred storms, stand, stretching, 
out their long, bony arms, like phantom giants. These skeleton pines are 
a striking image ; I wonder I have not seen them introduced into pictures. 

There, now, a little ahead, is a small hut, which marks the summit of 
the grand Scheidich. Our horses come up to it, and we dismount. Some 
of the party go in to sleep—I go out to climb a neighbouring peak. At 
the foot of this peak lay a wreath of snow, soiled and dirty, as half-melted 
snow always is ; but lying amid the green grass and luxuriant flowers, it 
had a strange air. It seemed a little spot of death in the green lap of 
rejoicing life—like that death-spot which often lies in the human heart— 
among all seeming flowers, cold and cheerless, unwarmed by the sunbeam, 
and unmelted by the ray that unfolds thousands of blooms around. 

How, I thought, I have read of Alpine flowers leaning their cheeks on 
the snows. I wonder if any flowers grow near enough to that enow to 
touch it. I mean to go and see. So I went; there, sure enough, my 
little fringed purple bell, to which I have given the name of “ suspirium,’' 
was growing, not only close to the snow, but in it. 

Thus God’s grace shining steadily on the waste places of the human 
neart, brings up heavenward sighings and aspirations which pierce through 
the cold snows of affliction, and tell that there is yet life beneath. 

I climbed up the grassy sides of the peak, flowers to the very top. 
There I sat down and looked. This is Alpine solitude. All around mo 



296 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


were these deep, green dells, from which comes up the tinkle of bells, like 
the dropping of rain everywhere. It seems to me the air is more elastic 
and musical here than below, and gives grace to the commonest sound. 
Now I look back along the way we have been travelling. I look at the 
strange old cloudy mountains, the Eiger, the Wetterhom, the Schreck- 
hom. A kind of hazy ether floats around them—an indescribable aerial 
halo—which no painter ever represents. Who can paint the air—that 
vivid blue in which these sharp peaks cut their glittering images ? Of all 
peaks, the Eiger is the most impressive to me. 

It is a gigantic ploughshare of rock, set up against the sky, its thin, 
keen, purple blade edged with glittering frost; for so sharp is its point, 
that only a dazzling line marks the eternal snow on its head. 

I walked out as far as I could on a narrow summit, and took a last look. 
Glaciers ! snows ! mountains ! sunny dells and flowers ! all good b} 7 e. I 
am a pilgrim and a stranger. 

Already, looking down to the shanty, I see the guide like a hen that 
has lost a chicken, shaking her wings, and clucking, and making a great 
ado. I could stay here all day. I would like to stay two or three—to 
see how it would look at sunrise, at sunset—to lie down in one of these 
sunny hollows, and look up into the sky—to shut my eyes lazily, and open 
them again, and so let the whole impression soak in , as Mrs. H. used to 
say. 

But no ; the sleepers have waked up, the guide has the horses ready, 
and I must come down. So here I descend my hill Difficulty into the 
valley of Humiliation. We stumble along, for the roads here are no turn¬ 
pikes, and we come to a place called the Black Forest; not the Black 
Eorest, but truly a black one. I always love pines, to all generations. 
I welcome this solemn old brotherhood, which stand gray-bearded, like 
monks, old, dark, solemn, sighing a certain mournful sound—like a bene- 
clicite through the leaves. 

About noon we came to Rosenlaui. As we drew near the hotel the 
guide struck off upon a path leading up the mountain, saying, by way of 
explanation, “ The glacier /” 

N ow, I confess that it was rather too near dinner time, and I was too 
tired at once to appreciate this movement. 

I regret to say, that two glaciers, however beautiful, on an empty 
stomach, appear rather of doubtful utility. So I remonstrated ; but the 
guide, as all guides do, went dead ahead, as if I had not said a word. C., 
however, rode composedly towards the hotel, saying that dinner was a 
finer sight than a glacier ; and I, though inly of the same mind, thought 
I would follow my guide, just to see. 

W. went with me. After a little we had to leave our horses, and 
scramble about a mile up the mountain. “ C. was right, and we are 
wrong,” said my companion, sententiously. I was just dubious enough 
to be silent. Pretty soon we came to a tremendous ravine, as if an earth¬ 
quake had rent a mountain asunder. A hundred feet down in this black 
gorge, a stream was roaring in a succession of mad leaps, and a bridge 
crossed it, where we stood to gaze down into its dark, awful depths. Then 
on we went till we came to the glacier. What a mass of clear, blue ice ! 
so very blue, so clear! This awful chasm runs directly under it, and the 
mountain torrent, formed by the melting of the glacier, falls ip a roaring 


ROSENLAUI. 


297 


cascade into it. You can go down into a cavern in this rift. Above your 
head a roof of clear, blue ice ; below your feet this black chasm, with the 
white, flashing foam of the cascade, as it leaps away into the darkness. 
On one side of the glacier was a little sort of cell, or arched nook, up which 
an old man had cut steps, and he helped me up into it. I stood in a 
little Gothic shrine of blue, glittering ice, and looked out of an arched 
window at the cascade and mountains. I thought of Coleridge’s line—’ 

“ A ifleasure bower with domes of ice.” 

On the whole, the glacier of Rosenlaui paid for looking—even at dinner 
time—which is saying a good deal. 


JOURNAL —(Continued.) 

GLACIERS.—INTERLACHEN.—SUNRISE IN THE MOUNTAINS.—MONUMENT TO THB 
SWISS GUARDS OE LOUIS XVI,—BASLE.—STRASBOURG. 

Friday, July 22. Grindelwald to Meyringen. On we came, to the 
top of the Great Scliiedich, where H. and W. botanized, while I slept. 
Thence we rode down the mountain till we reached Rosenlaui, where, I 
am free to say, a dinner was to me a more interesting object than a 
glacier. Therefore, while H. and W. went to the latter, I turned off to 
the inn, amid their cries and reproaches. I waved my cap and made a 
bow. A glacier !—go five rods farther to see a glacier ! Catch me in 
any such folly. The fact is, Alps are good, like confections, in modera¬ 
tion ; but to breakfast, dine, and sup on Alps surfeits my digestion. 

Here, for example, I am writing these notes in the salle-a-manrjcr of 
the inn, where other voyagers are eating and drinking, and there H. is 
feeding on the green moonshine of an emerald ice cave. One would 
almost think her incapable of fatigue. How she skips up and down high 
places and steep places, to the manifest perplexity of honest guide 
ICienholz, pdre, who tries to take care of her, but does not exactly know 
how. She gets on a pyramid of debris , which the edge of the glacier is 
jfloughing and grinding up, sits down, and falls—not asleep exactly—but 
into a trance. W. and I are ready to go on ; we shout; our voice is 
lost in the roar of the torrent. We send the guide. He goes down, and 
stands doubtfully. Ho does not know exactly what to do. She hears 
him, and starts to her feet, pointing with one hand to yonder peak, and 
with the other to that knifelike edge, that seems cleaving heaven with its 
keen and glistening cimeter of snow, reminding one of Isaiah’s sublime 
imagery, “ For my sword is bathed in heaven.” She points at the grizzly 
rocks, with their jags and spear points. Evidently she is beside herself, 
and thinks she can remember the names of those monsters, born o: earth¬ 
quake and storm, which cannot be named nor known but by sight, and 
then are known at once, perfectly and for ever. 

Mountains are Nature’s testimonials of anguish. They are the sharp 
cry of a groaning and travailing creation. Nature’s stern agony writes 
itself on these furrowed brows of gloomy stone. These reft and splintered 
ciags stand the dreary images of patient sorrow, existing verdureless and 
ptern because exist they must. In them hearts that have ceased to re- 



298 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


joice, and have learned-to suffer, find kindred, and here, an earth worn 
with countless cycles of sorrow, utters to the stars voices of speechless 
despair. 

And all this time no dinner! All this time H. is at the glacier ! How 
do I know but she has fallen into a crevasse ? How do I know but that 
a cliff, one of those ice castles, those leaning turrets, those frosty spear¬ 
men, have toppled over upon her ? I shudder at the reflection. I will 
write no more. 

I had just written thus far, when in came H. and W. in high feather. 
O, I had lost the greatest sight in Switzerland ! There was such a chasm, 
a mountain cut in twain, with a bridge, and a man to throw a stone 
down; and you could hear it go Loom, and he held his hat! “Not a 
doubt of that,” said I. Then there was a cavern in the ice, and the ice 
was so green, and the water dripped from the roof, and a great river 
gushed out. Such was the substance of their united enthusiasm. 

But, alas ! it was not enough to lose the best glacier in Switzerland ; 
I must needs lose two cascades and a chamois. Just before coming to 
Meyringen, I was composedly riding down a species of stone gridiron, 
set up sidewise, called a road, when the guide overtook me, and requested 
me to walk, as the road was bad. Stupid fellow! he said not a word 
about cascades and chamois, and so I went down like a chamois myself, 
taking the road that seemed best and nearest, and reached the inn an 
hour before the rest. After waiting till I became alarmed, and was just 
sending back a messenger to inquire, lo, in they came, and began to tell 
me of cascades and chamois. 

“What cascades? What chamois? I have not seen any!” And 
then what a burst ? “Not seen any ? What, two cascades, one glacier, 
and a four-year-old chamois, lost in one day ? What will become of you ? 
Is this the way you make the tour of Switzerland ?” 

Saturday, July 23. Bode in a voiture from Meyringen to Brienz, on 
the opposite end of the lake from Interlachen. Embarked in a row¬ 
boat of four immense oars tied by withes. Two men and one woman 
pulled three, and W. and I took turns at the fourth. The boat being 
high-built, flat-bottomed, with awning and flagstaff, rolled and tipped so 
easily, that soon II., with remorseful visage, abandoned her attempts to 
write, and lay down. There is a fresh and savage beauty about this 
lake, which can only be realized by rowing across. 

Interlachen is underrated in the guide-books. It has points of unri¬ 
valled loveliness ; the ruins of the old church of Binconberg, for ex¬ 
ample, commanding a fine view of both lakes, of the country between, 
of the Alps around, while just at your feet is a little lake in a basin, 
some two hundred feet above the other lakes. Then, too, from your 
window in the Belvedere, you gaze upon the purity of the Jungfrau* 
The church, too, where on Sabbath we attended Episcopal service, is 
embowered in foliage, anu seems like some New England village meeting¬ 
house. 

Monday, July 25. Adieu to Interlachen ! Ho, for Lucerne and the 
Bighi! Dined at Thun in a thunder-storm. Stopped over-night at 
Langnau, an out-of-the-way place. II. and G. painted Alpine flowers, 
while I played violin. This violin must be of spotless pedigree, even as 
our Genevese friend, Monsieur-, certified when he reluctantly sold 



SUNRISE IN THE MOUNTAINS, 


299 

it me. None but a genuine Amati, a hundred years old, can possess 
this mysterious quality, that can breathe almost inaudible, like a morn- 
beam in the parlour, or predominate imperious and intense over orchestra 
and choir, illuminating with its fire, like chain lightning, the arches of a 
vast cathedral. Enchanted thing—what nameless spirit impregnates with 
magnetic ether the fine fibres of thy mechanism ! 

Tuesday, 26. Rode from Langnau to Lucerne just in time to take 
the boat for Weggis. From the door of the Hotel de la Concorde, at 
Weggis, the guide chef fitted us out with two chaises a porteur, six 
carriers, two mules with grooms, making a party of fourteen in all. 

After ascending awhile the scenery became singularly wild and beau¬ 
tiful. Vast walls and cliffs of conglomerate rose above us, up which our 
path wound in zigzags. Below us were pines, vales, fields, and hills, them¬ 
selves large enough for mountains. There, at our feet, with its beautiful 
islands, bays, capes, and headlands, gleams the broad lake of the four 
cantons, consecrated by the muse of Schiller and the heroism of Tell. 
New plains are unrolling, new mountain-tops sinking below our range of 
vision. We plunged into a sea of mist. It rolled and eddied, boiling 
beneath us. Through its mysterious pall we saw now a skeleton pine 
stretch out its dark pointing hand—now a rock, shapeless and uncouth, 
far below, like a behemoth petrified in mid-ocean. Then an eddy would 
sweep a space for the sun to pour a flood of gold on this field far down 
at our feet, on that village, on this mountain-side with its rosy vapour- 
wreaths, upon yon distant lake, making it a crater of blinding brightness. 
On we went, wrapped in mantles, mist, and mystery, trembling with 
chilliness and enthusiasm. We reached the summit just as the sunset¬ 
gazing crowd were dispersing. And this is Eighi Kulm ! 

Wednesday, 27. At half-past three in the morning we were aroused 
by the Alpine horn. We sprang up, groping and dressing in the dark, 
and went out in the frosty air. Ascending the ridge we looked off upon 
a sleeping world. Mists lay beneath like waves, clouds, like a sea. On 
one side the Oberland Alps stretched along the horizon their pale, blue- 
white peaks. Other mountains, indistinct in colour and outline, chained 
round the whole horizon. Yes, “the sleeping rocks did dream” all over 
the wide expanse, as they slumbered on their cloudy pillow, and their 
dream was of the coming dawn. Twelve lakes, leaden pale or steel blue, 

• dreamed also under canopies of cloud, and the solid land dreamed, and 
all her wilds and forests. And in the silence of the dream already the 
tinge of clairvoyance lit the gray east; a dim, diffuse aurora, while yet 
the long, low clouds hung lustreless above ; nor could the eye prophesy 
where should open the door in heaven. At length, a flush, as of shame 
or joy, presaged the pathway. Tongues of many-coloured light vibrated 
beneath the strata of clouds, now dappled, mottled, streaked with fire; 
those on either hand of a light, flaky, salmon tint, those in the path and 
portal of the dawn of a gorgeous blending and blazoning of golden glories. 
The mists all abroad stirred uneasily. Tufts of feathery down came up 
out of the mass. Soft, floating films lifted from the surface and streamed 
away dissolving. Strange hues came out on lake and shore, far, far 
below. The air, the very air became conscious of a coming change, and 
the pale tops of distant Alps sparkled like diamonds. It was night in 
the valleys. And we heard the cocks crowing below, and the uneasy stir 


300 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANES. 


of a world preparing to awake. So Isaiali foresaw a slumbering world, 
while Messiah’s coming glanced upon the heights of Zion, and cried,— 

“ Behold, darkness shall cover the earth 
And gross darkness the people; 

But the Lord shall rise upon Thee, 

And his glory shall be seen upon thee !” 

Hushed the immense crowd of spectators waited ; then he came. On 
the gray edge of the horizon, under the emblazoned strata, came a sudden 
coal of fire, as shot from the altar of Heaven. It dazzled, it wavered, it 
consumed. Its lambent lines lengthened sidelong. At length, not a 
coal, but a shield, as the shield of Jehovah, stood above the east, and it 
was day. The vapour sea heaved, and broke, and rolled up the mountain 
sides. The lakes flashed back the conquering splendour. The wide pa¬ 
norama, asleep no more, was astir with teeming life. 

Tuesday, July 28. One of the greatest curiosities in Lucerne is the 
monument to those brave Swiss guards who were slain for their unshaken 
fidelity to the unhappy Louis XYI. In a sequestered spot the rocky 
hill-side is cut away, and in the living strata is sculptured the colossal 
figure of a dying lion. A spear is broken off in his side, but in his last 
struggle he still defends a shield, marked with th ejleur de lis of France. 
Below are inscribed in red letters, as if charactered in blood, the names 
of the brave officers of that devoted band. From many a crevice in the 
rock drip down trickling springs, forming a pellucid basin below, whose 
dark, glossy surface, encircled with trees and shrubs, reflects the image. 
The design of the monument is by Thorwaldsen, and the whole effect of 
it has an inexpressible pathos. 

Rode in our private voiture to Basle, and rested our weary limbs at th© 
Three Kings. 

Friday. 29. Visited the celebrities of Basle, and took the cars for 
Strasbourg, where we arrived in time to visit the minster. 

Saturday, 30. Left Strasbourg by the Rhine morning boat ; a long, 
low, slender affair. The scenery exceedingly tame, like portions of the 
Lower Mississippi. Disembarked at Manheim, and drove over to Heidel¬ 
berg, through a continual garden. French is useless here. All our ne¬ 
gotiations are in German, with W., S., and G. as a committee on 
gutturals. 


LETTER XXXIX. 

ETKASEOVEG. 

My Dear :— 

We arrived here this evening. I left the cars with my head full of 
the cathedral. The first thing I saw, on lifting my eyes, was a brown 
spire. Said I— 

“ C., do you think that can be the cathedral spire ?” 
u Yes, that must be it.” 

“ I am afraid it is,” said I, doubtfully, as I felt, within, that dissolving 
of airy visions which I have generally found the first sensation on visit¬ 
ing any celebrated object. 

The thing looked entirely too low and too broad for what I had heard 



Strasbourg^ 


SOI 


of its marvellous grace and lightness; nay, some mischievous elf even 
whispered the word “ dumpy” in my ear. But being informed, in time, 
that this was the spire, I resisted the temptation, and determined to 
make the best of it. I have since been comforted by reading in Goethe’s 
autobiography a criticism on its proportions quite similar to my own! 
We climbed the spire; we gained the roof. What a magnificent terrace. 
A world itself; a panoramic view sweeping the horizon. Here I saw 
the names of Goethe and Herder. Here they have walked many a time, 
I suppose. But the inside!—a forest-like firmament, glorious in holi¬ 
ness ; windows many-hued as the Hebrew psalms; a gloom solemn and 
pathetic as man’s mysterious existence; a richness gorgeous and mani¬ 
fold as his wonderful nature. In this Gothic architecture we see earnest 
northern races, whose nature was a composite of influences from pine- 
forest, mountain, and storm, expressing, in vast proportions and gigantic 
masonry, those ideas of infinite duration and existence which Christianity 
opened before them. A barbaric wildness mingles itself with fanciful, 
ornate abundance; it is the blossoming of northern forests. 

The ethereal eloquence of the Greeks could not express the rugged 
earnestness of souls wrestling with those fearful mysteries of fate, of 
suffering, of eternal existence, declared equally by nature and revelation. 
This architecture is Hebraistic in spirit, not Greek; it well accords with 
the deep ground-swell of Hebrew prophets. 

“ Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. 

“ Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed 
the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God. 

“ A thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past. 

11 And as a watch in the night.” 

The objection to Gothic architecture, as compared with Greek, is, that 
it is less finished and elegant. So it is. It symbolizes that state of 
mind too earnest for mere polish, too deeply excited for laws of exact 
proportions and architectural refinement. It is Alpine architecture—- 
vast, wild, and sublime in its foundations, yet bursting into flowers at 
every interval. 

The human soul seems to me an imprisoned essence, striving after 
somewhat divine. There is a struggle in it, as of suffocated flame; 
finding vent now through poetry, now in painting, now in music, sculp¬ 
ture, or architecture; various are the crevices and fissures, but the flame 

is one. 

Moreover, as society grows from barbarism upward, it tends to inflo¬ 
rescence, at certain periods, as do plants and trees; and some races flower 
later than others. This architecture was the first flowering of the Gothic 
race; they had no Homers; the flame found vent not by imaged words 
and vitalized alphabets; they vitalized stone, and their poets were min¬ 
ster builders; their epics, cathedrals. 

This is why one cathedral—-like Strasbourg, or Notre Dame—has a 
thousand-fold the power of any number of Madeleines. The Madeleine 
is simply a building; these are poems. 

I never look at one of them without feeling that gravitation of sout 
towards its artist which poetiy always excites. Often the artist is un¬ 
known ; here we know him; Erwin von Steinbach, poet, prophet, priest, 
in architecture. 


S02 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

We visited his house—a house old and quaint, and to me full of 
suggestions and emotions. Ah, if there be, as the apostle vividly sug¬ 
gests, houses not made with hands, strange splendours, of which these 
are but shadows, that vast religious spirit may have been finding scope 
for itself where all the forces of nature shall have been made tributary to 
the great conceptions of the soul. 

Save this cathedral, Strasbourg has nothing except peaked-roofed 
houses, dotted with six or seven rows of gable windows. 


LETTER XL. 


THE EHIHE.—HE II) ELBE EG. 

My Dear :— 


Heidelbeeg. 


To-day we made our first essay on the Rhine. Switzerland is a poor 
preparation for admiring any common scenery; but the Rhine from 
Strasbourg to Manheim seemed only a muddy strip of water, with low 
banks, poplars, and willows. If there was anything better, we passed 
it while I was asleep; for I did sleep, even on the classic Rhine. 

Day before yesterday, at Basle, I went into the museum, and there 
saw some original fragments of the “Dance of Death,” and many oilier 
pictures of Holbein, with two miniature likenesses of Luther and his 
wife, by Lucas Cranach; they are in water colours. Catharine was no 
beauty at that time, if Lucas is to be trusted, and Luther looks rather 
savage. But I saw a book of autographs, and several original letters of 
Luther’s. I saw the word “Jesus” at the top of one of them, thus, 
“J. U. S.” The handwriting was fair, even, and delicate. I laid my 
hand on it, and thought his hand also had passed over the paper which 
he has made living with his thoughts. Melanctlion, of whom a far more 
delicate penmanship might have been expected, wrote a coarse, rugged 
hand, quite like Dr. Bishop’s. It somewhat touched my heart to see 
this writing of Luther’s, so fair, and clean, and flowing; and to think of 
his vive and ever-surging spirits, his conflicts and his victories. 

We were awakened, about eight o’clock this morning, by the cathedral 
bell, which is near by, and by the chanting of the service. It was a 
beautiful, sunny morning, and I could hear them sing all the time I was 
dressing. I think, by the style of the singing, it was Protestant service: 
it brought to mind the elms of Andover—the dewy, exquisite beauty of 
the Sabbath mornings there; and I felt, more than ever, why am I 
seeking anything more beautiful than home? But to-day the sweet 
shadow of God’s presence is still over me, and the sense of iiis love and 
protection falls silently into my soul like dew. 

At breakfast time, Professor M. and his daughter called, as he said, 
to place themselves at our disposal for the castle, or whatever we might 
wish to see. I intimated that we would prefer spending the day in our 
New England manner of retirement—a suggestion which he took at 
once. 

After breakfast, the servant asked us if we should like to have a room 
commanding a view of the castle. “To be sure,” said I. So he ushered 



HEXDELBEEG. 


303 

iis into a large, elegantly-furnished apartment, looking out immediately 
upon it. There it sat, upon its green throne, a regal, beautiful, poetic 
thing, fair and sad. 

We had singing and prayers, and a sermon from C. We did not go 
to the table d'hote, for we abominate its long-drawn, endless formalities. 
But one part of the arrangements we enjoyed without going: I mean 
the music. To me all music is sacred. Is it not so ? All real music, 
in its passionate earnest, its blendings, its wild, heart-searching tones, is 
the language of aspiration. So it may not be meant, yet, /when' we know 
God, so we translate it. 

In the evening we took tea with Professor M., in a sociable way, much 
like the salon of Paris. Mrs. M. sat at a table, and poured out tea, 
which a servant passed about on a waiter. Gradually quite a circle of 
people dropped in—among them Professor Mittemeyer, who, I was told, 
is the profoundest lawyer in Germany; also there was Heinrich von 
Gagen, who was head of the convention of the empire in 1848, and prime 
minister. He is tall, has a strongly-marked face, very dark hair and 
eyebrows. There was also a very young man, with quite light hair, 
named Pisher, who, they told me, was one of the greatest philosophers 
of the time; but government had taken away his licence to lecture, on 
account of his pantheistic principles. I understand that this has occa¬ 
sioned much feeling, and that some of the professors side with, and some 
against him. A lady told me that the theological professors were against 
him. I wonder people do not see that this kind of suppression of opi¬ 
nion is a sword with two edges, which may cut orthodoxy equally with 
pantheism. “ Let both grow together,” says Christ, “the wheat and 
the tares.” In America we do this, and a nodding crop of all sorts we 
have. The more the better; the earth must exhaust herself before the 
end can come. 

Mr. M. spoke English, as did his very pretty daughter, Ida; his wife 
only French and German. Now, if you had only been there, we might 
have had quite a brilliant time; but my ignorance of German kept me 
from talking with any but those who could speak English. Professor 
Mittemeyer summoned English enough to make a long compliment, to 
which I responded as usual, by looking very foolish. There was a well 
informed gentleman there, who was formerly private secretary to Prince 
Albert, and who speaks English well. He has a bright, ingenious mind, 
and knows everything, and seemed particularly willing to give me the 
benefit of his knowledge, for which I was suitably grateful. On the 
whole, I spent a very pleasant evening, and we part 3d about nine 
o’clock, Miss Ida promising to be our guide to the castle in the morning. 

Well, in the morning I was too unwell to leave the sofa. I knew the- 
old symptoms, and remained in my room, while Professor M. and 
daughter, with S., W., and G., went up to the castle. I lay all day on 
the sofa, until, at five o’clock at night, I felt so much better that I 
thought we might take a carnage • and drive up. C. accompanied me, 
and cocker took us by a beautiful drive along the valley of the Neckar, 
over the hills back of the castle, and finally through the “old arched gate¬ 
way into the grounds. I had no idea before of the extent or the archi¬ 
tectural beauty of the place. The terrace behind the castle is a most 
lovely spot. It wanted only silence and solitude to make it perfect; it 


304 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


was full of tourists, as also was each ruined nook and arch. I sauntered 
about alone, for C. had a sick headache, and was forced to sit on one of 
the stone benches. Heidelberg Castle is of vast extent, and various 
architecture; parts of it, a guide book says, were designed by Michael 
Angelo. Over one door was a Hebrew inscription. Marshalled in 
niches in the wall stood statues of electors and knights in armour—• 
silent, lonely. The effect was quite different from the old Gothic ruins 
I had seen. This spoke of courts, of princes; and the pride and grandeur 
of the past, contrasted with the silence and desertion, reminded me of 
the fable of the city of enchantment, where king and court were smitten 
to stone as they stood. A mournful lion’s head attracted my attention, 
it had such a strange, sad look ; and there was a fountain broken and 
full of weeds. 

I looked on the carvings, the statues, the broken arches, where blue¬ 
bells and wild flowers were waving, and it seemed inexpressibly beautiful. 
It haunted me in my dreams, and I found myself walking up and down 
that terrace, in a kind of dim, beautiful twilight, with some friend: it 
was a strange dream of joy. But I felt myself very ill even while there, 
and had to take my sofa again as soon as I returned. There lying, 
I took my pencil, and drew just the view of the castle which I could 
see from my window, as a souvenir of the happiness I had felt at 
Heidelberg. 

Now, I know you will say with me, that a day of such hazy, dreamy 
enjoyment is worth a great deal. We cannot tell why it is, or what it 
is, but one feels like an iEolian breathed on and touched by soft winds. 

There is a singular tinge of the Moorish about this architecture which 
gives me great delight. That Moorish development always seemed to 
me strangely exciting and beautiful. 


J OU RN AL— (Continued. ) 

TO FEANKFOET. 

Tuesday, August 2. We leave Heidelberg with regret. At the 
railway station occurred our first lo3s of baggage. As W. was making 
change in the baggage room, he missed the basket containing our books 
and sundries. Unfortunately the particular word for basket had just 
then stepped out. “ Wo ist mein — ■pannier ?" exclaimed he, giving 
them the French synonyme. They shook their heads. “ Wo ist mein — 
basket?” he cried, giving them English; they shook their heads still 

harder. “ Wo ist mein -” “Whew — w!” shrieked the steam 

whistle; “Ding a-ling-ling!” went the bell, and, leaving his question 
unfinished, W. ran for the cars. 

In our car was an elderly couple, speaking French. The man was 
evidently a quiet sort of fellow, who, by long Caudling, had subdued 
whole volcanoes into dumbness within him. Little did "he think what 
eruption fate was preparing. H. sat opposite his hat, which he had 
placed on the empty seat. There was a tower, or something, coming; 
II. rose, turned round, and innocently took a seat on his chapeau. 
Such a voice as came out of that meekness personified ! 




FRANKFORT. 


305 

In the twinkling of an eye—for there is a peculiar sensation which a 
person experiences in sitting upon, or rather into a hat; ages are con¬ 
densed into moments, and between the first yielding of the brittle top and 
the final crush and jam, as between the top of a steeple and the bottom, 
there is room for a life’s reflection to flash through the mind—in the 
twinkling of an eye H. agonizingly felt that she was sitting on a hat, that 
the hat was being jammed, that it was getting flat and flatter every 
second, that the meek man was howling in French; and she was just 
thinking of her husband and children when she started to her feet, and 
the nightmare was over. The meek man, having howled out his French 
sentence, sat aghast, stroking his poor hat, while his wife opposite was 
in convulsions, and we all agog. The gentleman then asked H. if she 
proposed sitting where she was, saying, very significantly, “If you do, 
I’ll put my hat there;” suiting the action to the word. We did not 
recover from this all the way to Frankfort. 

Arrived at Frankfort, we drove to the Hotel de Russie. Then, after 
visiting all the lions of the place, we rode to see Dannecker’s Ariadne. 
It is a beautiful female riding on a panther or a tiger. The light is let 
in through a rosy curtain, and the flush as of life falls upon the beautiful 
form. Two thoughts occurred to me; why when we gaze upon this form 
so perfect, so entirely revealed, does it not excite any of those emotions, 
either of shame or of desire, which the living reality would excite ? And 
again; why does not the immediate contact of ieminine helplessness with 
the most awful brute ferocity excite that horror which the sight of the 
same in real life must awaken ? Why, but because we behold under a 
spell in the transfigured world of art where passion ceases, and bestial 
instincts are felt to be bowed to the law of mind, and of ideal truth. 


LETTER XLI. 

FHANKFOET.—LESSING'S “TEIAL OF HUSS.” 

Dear :— 

To-day we came to Frankfort, and this afternoon we have been driving 
out to see the lions, and, in the first place, the house where Goethe was 
born. Over the door, you remember, was the family coat of arms. 
Well, while we were looking, I perceived that a little bird had accom¬ 
modated the crest of the coat to be his own family residence, and was 
flying in and out of a snug nest wherewith he had crowned it. Little 
fanciful, feathery amateur! could nothing suit him so well as Goethe’s 
coat of arms ? I could fancy the little thing to be the poet’s soul come 
back to have a kind of breezy, hovering existence in this real world of 
ours—to sing, and perch, and soar; for I think you told me that his 
principle grace and characteristic was an exquisite perception and expres¬ 
sion of physical beauty. Goethe’s house was a very grand one for the 
times, was it not? Now a sign in the window tells us it is used as a 
manufactory of porcelain. 

Then we drove through the Jews’ quarters. You remember how queer 
and old they look; they have been much modernized since you were 
there. Cocker stopped before one house, and said something in German 

X 



306 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


about Rothschild, which C. said sounded like u Here Rothschild hung 
his boots out.” We laughed and rode on. 

After this we went to the Romer, the hall that you have told me of, 
where the emperors were chosen, all painted with their portraits in com¬ 
partments ; and I looked out on the fountain in front, that used, on these 
occasions, to flow with wine. Then I walked around to see all the 
emperors, and to wish I knew more about history. Charles V. is the 
only one of whom I have any distinct recollection. 

Then we went to a kind of museum. Cocker stopped at the door, and 
we heard a genei*al sputtering of gutturals between him, W., and G., he 
telling them something about Luther. I got it into my head that the 
manuscript of Luther’s Bible was inside; so I rushed forward. It was 
the public library. A colossal statue of Goethe, by an Italian artist, was 
the first thing I saw. What a head the man had !—a Jupiter of a head. 
And what a presence! The statue is really majestic; but was Goethe 
so much, really think you ? That egotistical spirit shown in his Diary 
sets me in doubt. Shakspeare w r as not self-conscious, and left no trace 
of egotism; if he knew himself, he did not care to tell what he knew. 
Yet the heads are both great and majestic heads, and would indicate a 
p.enary manhood. 

We went into the library, disturbing a quiet, good sort of bibliopole 
there, who, with some regret, put aside his book to guide us. 

“ Is Luther’s Bible here?” W. and G. opened on him. 

tf Nobut he ushered us into a cabinet. 

“There are Luther’s shoes!” 

“ Shoes !” we all exclaimed; and there was an irreverent laugh. Yes, 
there they were in a glass case,—his shoes, large as life,—shoes without 
heels ; great, clumping, thick, and black! What an idea! However, 
there was a genuine picture by Lucas Cranach, and another of Catherine, 
by Holbein, which gave more consolatory ideas of her person than that 
which I saw before at Basle. There were also autographs of Goethe 
and Schiller, as well as of Luther and Melancthon. 

Our little bibliopole looked mournfully at us, as if we were wasting 
his time, and seemed glad when we went out. C. thought he was huify 
because we laughed at Luther’s shoes; but I think he was only yearning 
after his book. C. offered him a fee, but he would not take it. Going 
down stairs, in the entry, I saw a picture of the infant Goethe on an 
eagle. We rode, also, to see a bronze statue of him in some street or 
other, and I ate an ice cream there to show my regal’d for him. We are 
delighted on the whole with Frankfort. 

Now, after all, that I should forget the crown of all our seeings, Dan- 
necker’s Ariadne! It is in a pavilion in a gentleman’s garden. Could 
mere beauty and grace delight and fill the soul, one could not ask for 
more than the Ariadne. The beautiful head, the throat, the neck, the 
bust, tlie hand, the arm, the whole attitude, are exquisite. But, after 
all, what is it? No moral charm,—mere physical beauty, cold as Greek 
mythology. I thought of his Christ , and did not wonder that when he 
had turned his art to that divine representation, he should ret use to 
sculpture from classic models. “ He who has sculptured a Christ cannot 
sculpture a Venus.” 

Our hotel here is very beautiful. I think it must have been some palace. 



lessing’s “trial of huss.” 


307 

for it is adorned with fine statues, and walls of real marble. The stair¬ 
case is beautiful, with brass railing, and at the foot a marble lion on each 
side. The walls of my bed room are lined with green damask, bordered 
by gilt bands ; the attendance here is excellent. In every hotel of each 
large city, there is a man who speaks English. The English language 
is slowly and surely creeping through Europe; already it rivals the 
universality of the French. 

Two things in this city have struck me singularly, as peculiarly 
German; one was a long-legged stork, which I saw standing on a chimney 
top, reminding me of the oft-mentioned “dear white stork” of German 
stories. Why don’t storks do so in America, I wonder? Another thing 
was, waking suddenly in the middle of the night, and hearing the hymn 
of the watchman as he announced the hour. I think this is a beautiful 
custom. 

In the morning, I determined to get into the picture gallery. Now 
C., who espoused to himself an “ Amati” at Geneva, has been, like all 
young bridegrooms, very careless about everything else but his beloved, 
since he got it. Painting, sculpture, architecture, all must yield to 
music. Nor can all the fascinations of Raphael or Reubens vie in hi3 
estimation with the melodies of Mozart, or the harmonies of Beethoven. 
So, yesterday, when we found the picture gallery shut, he profanely re¬ 
marked, “ What a mercy!” And this morning I could enlist none of 
the party but W. to go with me. We were paid for going. There were 
two or three magnificent pictures of sunrise and sunset in the Alps by 
modem artists. Never tell me that the old masters have exhausted the 
world of landscape painting at any rate. Am I not competent to judge 
because I am not an artist ? What! do not all persons feel themselves 
competent to pronounce on the merits of natural landscapes, and say 
which of two scenes is finer! And are painters any greater artists than 
God? If they say that we are not competent to judge, because we do 
not understand the mixture of colours, the mysteries of foreshortening, 
and all that, I would ask them if they understand how God mixes his 
colours? “Canst thou understand the balancing of the clouds? the 
wondrous ways of Him who is perfect in wisdom?” If, therefore, I may 
dare to form a judgment of God’s originals, I also will dare to judge of 
man’s imitations. Nobody shall impose old, black, smoky Poussins and 
Salvator Rosas on me, and so insult my eyesight and common sense as 
to make me confess they are better than pictures which I can see have 
all the freshness and bloom of the living reality upon them. 

So, also, a most glorious picture here. The Trial of JohnHuss before 
the Council of Constance, by Lessing—one of the few things I have seen 
in painting which have had power deeply to affect me. I have it not in 
my heart to criticise it as a mere piece of colouring and finish, though in 
these respects I thought it had great merits. But the picture had the 
power, which all high art must have, of rebuking and silencing these 
minor inquiries in the solemnity of its morale. I believe the highest 
painter often to be the subject of a sort of inspiration, by which his 
works have a vitality of suggestion, so that they sometimes bring to the 
beholder even more than he himself conceived when he created them. 
In this picture, the idea that most impressed me was, the representation 
of that more refined and subtle torture of martyrdom which consists in 

X 2 


308 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


the incertitude and weakness of an individual against whom is arrayed 
the whole weight of the religious community. If against the martyr 
only the worldly and dissolute stood arrayed, he could bear it; but when 
the church, claiming to be the visible representative of Christ, casts him 
out! when multitudes of pious and holy souls, as yet unenlightened 
in their piety, look on him with horror as an infidel and blasphemer,— 
then comes the very wrench of the rack. As long as the body is strong, 
and the mind clear, a consciousness of right may sustain even this; but 
there come weakened hours, when, worn by prison and rack, the soul 
asks itself, “ Can it be that all the religion and respectability of the 
world is wrong, and I alone right?” Such an agony Luther expressed 
in that almost superhuman meditation written the night before the Diet 
at Worms. Such an agony, the historian tells us, John Huss passed 
through the night before his execution. 

Now for the picture. The painter has arrayed, with consummate 
ability, in the foreground a representation of the religious respectability 
of the age: Italian cardinals, in their scarlet robes, their keen, intel¬ 
lectual, thoughtful faces, shadowed by their broad hats; men whom it 
were no play to meet in argument; there are grey-headed, venerable 
priests, and bishops with their seal rings of office,—all that expressed the 
stateliness and grandeur of what Huss had been educated to consider the 
true church. In the midst of them stands Huss, habited in a simple 
dark robe; his sharpened features, and the yellow, corpse-like pallor of 
his face, tell of prison and of suffering. He is defending himself; and 
there is a trembling earnestness in the manner with which his hand grasps 
the Bible. With a passionate agony he seems to say, “Am I not right? 
does not this word say it? and is it not the word of God?” 

So have I read the moral of this noble picture, and in it I felt that I 
had seen an example of that true mission of art which will manifest itself 
more and more in this woi’ld as Christ’s kingdom comes; art which is 
not a mere jugglery of colours, a gymnastic display of effects, but a 
solemn, inspiring poetry, teaching us to live and die for that which is 
noblest and truest. I think this picture much superior to its companion, 
the Martyrdom of Huss, which I had already seen in America. 


J 0 U B N A L— (Continued). 

TO COLOGNE.—THE CATHEDBAL. 

Wednesday, August 3. Frankfort to Cologne. Hurrah for the 
Bhine! At eleven we left the princely palace, calling itself Hotel de 
Bussie, whose halls are walled with marble, and adorned with antique 
statues of immense value. Lo, as we were just getting into our carriage, 
the lost parcel! basket, shawl, cloak, and* all! We tore along to the 
station, rode pleasantly over to Mayenz; made our way on board a 
Steamer loaded down with passengers; established ourselves finally in the 
centre of all things on five stools, and deposited our loose change of bag¬ 
gage in the cabin. 

The steamer was small, narrow, and poor, though swift. Thus we 
began to see the Rhine under pressure of circumstances. 



COLOGNE. 


309 

'The French and Germans chatted merrily. The English tourists 
looked conscientiously careworn. Papa with three daughters peeped 
alternately into the guide book, and out of the loophole in the awning, in 
evident terror lest something they ought to see should slip them. 
Escaping from the jam, we made our way to the bow, carrying stools, 
umbrellas, and books, and there, on the very beak of all things, we had 
a tine view. Duly and dutifully we admired Bingen, Coblentz, Eliren- 
breitstein, Bonn, Drachenfels, and all the other celebrities, and read 
Childe Harold on the Rhine. Reached Cologne at nine. 

Thursday, August 4. We drove to the cathedral. I shall not re¬ 
capitulate Murray, nor give architectural details. I was satisfied with 
what I saw and heard, and wished that so magnificent a conception, so 
sublime a blossom of stone sculpture, might come to ripe maturity, not as 
a church, indeed, but rather as a beautiful petrifaction, a growth of pro¬ 
lific, exuberant nature. Why should not the yeasty brain of man, 
fermenting, froth over in such crestwork of Gothic pinnacle, spire, and 
column? 

The only service I appreciated was the organ and chant: hidden in 
the midst of forest arches of stone, pouring forth its volumes of harmony 
as by unseen minstrelsy, it seemed to create an atmosphere of sound, in 
which the massive columns seemed transiased,—not standing, as it 
were, but floating,—not resting, as with weight of granite mountains, 
but growing as by a spirit of law and development. Filled with those 
vast waves and undulations, the immense edifice seemed a creature, 
tremulous with a life, a soul, an instinct of its own; and out of its 
deepest heart there seemed to struggle upward breathings of unutterable 
emotion. 


LETTER XLII. 

COLOGNE.— CHURCH OE ST. URSULA.—RELICS.—DUSSELDORF. 

Cologne, 10 o'clock, Hotel Bellevue. 

Dear :— 

The great old city is before me, looming up across the Rhine, which 
lies spread out like a molten looking-glass, all quivering and wavering, 
reflecting the thousand lights of the city. We have been on the Rhine 
all day, gliding among its picture-like scenes. But, alas ! I had a head¬ 
ache ; the boat was crowded; one and all smoked tobacco ; and in vain, 
under such circumstances, do we see that nature is fair. It is not enough 
to open one’s eyes on scenes; one must be able to be en rapport with 
them. Just so in the spiritual world, we sometimes sec great truths,— 
see that God is beautiful, glorious, and surpassingly lovely; but at other 
times we feel both nature and God, and 0, how different seeing and 
feeling / To say the truth, I have been quite homesick to-day, and 
leaning my head on the rails, pondered an immediate flight, a giving up 
of all engagements on the continent and in England, an immediate rush 
homeward. 0 Does it not seem absurd, that, when within a few days’ 
journey of what has been the long-desired dream of my heart, I should 
f ee l so—that I should actually feel that I had rather take some more 



310 


SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


of our pleasant walks about Andover, than to see all that Europe has 
to offer? 

This morning we went to the Cologne Cathedral. In the exterior of 
both this and Strasbourg I was disappointed ; but in the interior, who 
could be ? There is a majesty about those up-springing arches—those 
columns so light, so lofty—it makes one feel as if rising like a cloud. 
Then the innumerable complications and endless perspectives, arch above 
arch, and arch within arch, all lighted up and coloured by the painted 
glass, and all this filled with the waves of the chant and the organ, rising 
and falling like the noise of the sea; it was one of the few overpowering 
things that do not satisfy, because they transport you at once beyond the 
restless anxiety to be satisfied, and leave you no time to ask the cold 
question, Am I pleased? 

Ah, surely, I said to myself, as I walked with a kind of exultation 
among those lofty arches, and saw the clouds of incense ascending, the 
kneeling priests, and heard the pathetic yet grand voices of the chant— 
surely, there is some part in man that calls for such a service, for such 
visible images of grandeur and beauty. The wealth spent on these 
churches is a sublime and beautiful protest against materialism—against 
that use of money which merely brings supply to the coarse animal wants 
of life, and which makes of God’s house only a bare pen, in which a man 
sits to be instructed in his duties. 

Yet a moment after I had the other side of the question brought 
forcibly to my mind. In an obscure corner was a coarse wooden shrine, 
painted red, in which was a doll dressed up in spangles and tinsel, to re¬ 
present the Virgin, and hung round with little waxen effigies of arms, 
hands, feet, and legs, to represent, I suppose, some favour which had 
been accorded to these members of her several votaries through her inter¬ 
cessions. Before this shrine several poor people were kneeling, with 
clasped hands and bowed heads, praying with an earnestness which was 
sorrowful to see. “ They have taken away their Lord, and they know 
not where they have laid him.” Such is the end of this superb idolatry 
in the illiterate and the poor. 

Yet if we could, would we efface from the world such cathedrals as 
Strasbourg and Cologne ? I discussed the question of outward pomp and 
ritual with myself while I was walking deliberately round a stone balus¬ 
trade on the roof of the church, and looking out through the flying but¬ 
tresses, upon the broad sweep of the Rhine, and the queer, old-times 
houses and spires of the city. I thought of the splendours of the Hebrew 
ritual and temple, instituted by God himself. I questioned where was 
the text in the gospel that forbade such a ritual, provided it were felt to 
be desirable; and then I thought of the ignorance and stupid idolatry of 
those countries where this ritual is found in greatest splendour, and asked 
whether these are the necessary concomitants of such churches and such 
forms, or whether they do not result from other causes. The Hebrew 
ritual, in a far more sensuous age, had its sculptured cherubim, its pic¬ 
torial and artistic wealth of representation, its gorgeous priestly vestments, 
its incense, and its chants; and they never became, so far as we know, 
the objects of idolatrous veneration. 

But I love to go back over and over the scenes of that cathedral; to 
look up those arches that seem to me, in their buovant lightness, to have 


CHURCH OF ST. URSULA. 


311 

not been made with hands, but to have shot up like an enchantment—to 
have risen like an aspiration, an impersonation of the upward sweep of 
the soul, in its loftiest moods of divine communion. There were about 
five minutes of feeling, worth all the discomforts of getting here; and it 
is only for some such short time that we can enjoy—then our prison door 
closes. 

There are four painted glass windows, given by the King of Bavaria. 
I have got for H. the photograph of two of them, representing the birth 
and death of Christ. They are gorgeous paintings by the first masters. 
The windows round the choir were painted in a style that reminded me 
of our forests in autumn. 

Well, after our sublimities came a farce. We went to St. Ursula’s 
church, to see the bones of the eleven thousand virgins, who, the 
chronicle says, were slain here because they would not break their vows 
of chastity. I was much amused. As we entered the church, C. re¬ 
marked impressively, “ It is evident that these virgins have no connexion 
with Cologne water!” The fact was lamentably apparent. Doleful- 
looking figures of virgins, painted in all the colours of the rainbow, were 
looking down upon us from all quarters ; and in front, in a glass frame, 
was a bill of fare, in Drench, of the relics which could be served up to 
order. C. read the list aloud, and then we proceeded to a small side 
room to see the exhibition. The upper portion of the walls was covered 
with small bones strung on wires, and arranged in a kind of fanciful 
arabesque, much as shell-boxes are made; and the lower part was taken 
up with busts in silver and gold gilding, representing still the in¬ 
terminable eleven thousand. A sort of cupboard door half opened 
showed the shelves all full of skulls, adorned with little satin caps, 
coronets, and tinsel jewelry; which skulls, we were informed, were the 
original head-pieces of the same redoubtable females. 

At the other end of the room was a raised stage, where the most holy 
relics of all were being displayed, under the devout eye of a priest in a 
long, black robe. C. and I went upon the stage to be instructed. S., 
whom the aforesaid lack of Cologne water in the establishment had 
rendered peculiarly unpropitious, stood at a majestic distance; but C., 
assuming an air of profound faith, stood up to be initiated. 

“ That,” says the priest, in a plaintive voice, pitched to the exact point 
between lamentation and veneration, “is the ring of St. Ursula.” 

“ Indeed,” says C., “herring!” 

“Yes,” says the priest, “it was found in her tomb.” 

“ It was found in her tomb—only think!” says C., turning gravely to 
me. I had to look another way, while the priest proceeded to introduce, 
byname, four remarkably yellow skulls, with tastefully trimmed red caps 
on, as those of St. Ursula and sundry of her most intimate friends. S. 
looked gloriously indignant, and C. increasingly solemn. 

“ Dere,” said the priest, opening an ivory box, in which was about a 
quart of teeth of different sizes, “dere is de teeth of the eleven thousand.” 
“Indeed,” echoes C., “ their teeth !” 

S., at this, waxed magnificent, and, as a novel writer would say, 
swept from the apartment. I turned round, shaking with laughter, 
while the priest went on— 

“ Dere is a rib of St. - 





312 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


“Ah, his rib; indeed!” „ 

“And dere is de arrow as pierced the heart of St. Ursula.” 

“H.,” says C., “here is the arrow that killed St. Ursula.” (The 
wicked scamp knew I was laughing!) 

“ Dere is the net that was on her hair.” 

“This is what she wore on her hair, then,” says C., eyeing the rag 
with severe and melancholy gravity. 

“And here is some of the blood of the martyr Stephen,” says the 
priest, holding a glass case with some mud in it. 

In the same way he showed two thorns from the crown of Christ, and 
a piece of the Virgin’s petticoat. 

“And here is the waterpot of stone, in which our Lord made the wine 
at the marriage in Cana.” 

“Indeed,” said C., examining it with great interest; “where are the 
rest of them?” 

“The rest?” says the priest. 

“ Yes; I think there were six of them' where are they?” 

The priest only went over the old story. “This came from Home, and 
the piece broken out of the side is at Home yet.” 

It is to be confessed that I felt in my heart, through this disgusting 
recital, some of S.’s indignation; and I could not help agreeing with her 
that the odour of sanctity, as generally developed in the vicinity, was any¬ 
thing but agreeable. I did long to look that man once steadily in the 
eyes, to see if he was such a fool as he pretended; but the ridiculousness 
of the whole scene overcame me so that I could not look up, and I 
marched out in silence. The whole church is equally full of virgins. The 
altar-piece is a vast picture of the slaughter, not badly painted. Through 
various glass openings you perceive that the wails are full of the bones 
and skulls. Did the worship of Egypt ever sink lower in horrible and 
loathsome idolatry? I had heard of such things; but it is one thing to 
hear of them, and another to see them by the light of this nineteenth 
century, in a city whose streets look much like the streets of any other, 
and where men and women appear much as they do anywhere else. Here 
we saw, in one morning, the splendour and the rottenness of the Homisli 
system. From those majestic arches, that triumphant chant, there is 
but a step down to the worship of dead men’s bones and all uncleanness. 

We went also into the Jesuits’ church. The effect, to my eye, was 
that of a profusion of tawdry, dirty ornament; only the railing of the 
choir, which w r as a splendid piece of carving, cut from a single block of 
Carrara marble. 

The guide book prescribes, I think, no less than half a dozen churches 
in Cologne as a dose for the faithful; but we were satisfied with these 
three, and went back to our hotel. As a general thing I would not 
recommend more than three churches on an empty stomach. 

The outer wall of Cologne is a very fine specimen of fortification, (I 
am quoting my guide book) and we got a perfect view of it in crossing 
the bridge of boats to return to our hotel. Why they have a bridge of 
boats here I cannot say; perhaps on account of the width and swiftness 
of the river. 

Having heard so much of the dirt and vile smells of Cologne, I was 
surprised that our drive took us through streets no way differing from 


DUSSELDORF* 


313 


those of most other cities, and, except in the vicinity of the eleven thou¬ 
sand virgins, smelling no worse. Still, there may be vile, ill-smelling 
streets; but so there are in Edinburgh, London, and New York. 

From Cologne we went, at four o’clock, to Dusseldorf, a little town, 
celebrated for the head quarters of the Dusseldorf school of painting. I 
cannot imagine why they chose this town for a school of the fine arts, as 
it is altogether an indifferent, uninteresting place. It is about an hour’s 
ride from Cologne. We arrived there in time to go into the exhibition 
of the works of the artists, which is open all summer. I don’t know how 
good a specimen it is, but I thought it rather indifferent. There were 
some few paintings that interested me, but nothing equal to those I have 
seen in the Dusseldorf gallery at home. Whittridge lives there, but, 
unfortunately, was gone for eight days. 

Our hotel was pleasant—opening on a walk shaded by double rows of 
trees. We ordered a nice little tea in our room, and waxed quite merry 
over it. 

This morning we started at seven, and here we are to-night in Leipsic 
—as uninteresting a country as I have seen yet. Moreover, we had 
passed beyond the limits of our Rhine guide book, and as yet had no 
other, and so did not know anything about the few objects of interest 
which presented themselves. The railroads, of course, persisted in their 
invariable habit of running you up against a dead wall, so that you see 
nothing where you stop. 

The city of Magdeburg is the only interesting object I have seen. I 
had a fair view of its cathedral, which, I think, though not so imposing, 
yet as picturesque and beautiful as any I remember to have seen; and its 
old wall, too. We changed cars here, going through the wall into the 
city, and I saw just enough to make me wish to see more; and now to¬ 
night we are in Leipsic. 

Morning. We are going out now, and I must mail this letter. To¬ 
morrow we spend at Halle. 


J OURNAL—(Continued. 

TO LEIPSIC—M. TAUCHNITZ—DBESDEN—TUB GALLERY— HEELIN'. 

Friday, August 5. Dusseldorf to Leipsic^ three hundred and seventy- 
three miles. A very level and apparently fertile country. If well 
governed it ought to increase vastly in riches. 

Saturday, August 6. Called at the counting-house of M. Tauchnitz, 
the celebrated publisher. An hour after, accompanied by Mrs. T., he 
came with two open carriages, and took us to see the city and environs. 
We visited the battle-ground, and saw the spot where Napoleon stood 
during the engagement; a slight elevation, commanding an immense 
plain in every direction, with the spires of the city rising in the distance. 
After seeing various sights of interest, we returned to our hotel, where 
our kind friends took their leave. In the afternoon M. Tauchnitz sent 
II. a package of his entertaining English publications, to read in the 
cars, also a Murray for Germany. H. and I then took the cars for 



314 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

Halle, where we hoped to spend the Sabbath and meet with Dr. Tholuck. 
Travellers sometimes visit Chamouni without seeing Mont Blanc, wh« 
remains enveloped in clouds during their stay. So with us. In ail 
hour we were in rooms at the Ivron Prince. We sent a note to the pro¬ 
fessor; the waiter returned, saying that Dr. Tholuck was at Kissengen. 
Our theological Mont Blanc was hid in mist. Blank enough looked' we! 

“ H., is there no other professor we want to see?” 

“ I believe not.” 

Pensively she read one of the Tauchnitz Library. Plaintively my 
Amciti sighed condolence. 

“ H.,” said I, “perhaps we might reach Dresden to-night?” 

“ Do you think so? Is it possible? Is there a train?” 

“ We can soon ascertain.” 

“ How amazed they would look ! ” 

We summoned the maitre-d’hotel, ordered tea, paid, packed, raced, 
ran, and hurried, 'presto, prestissimo , into a car half choked with voyagers, 
changed lines at Leipsic, and shot off to Dresden. By deep midnight we 
were thundering over the great stone Pont d’Elbe, to the Hotel de 
Saxe, where, by one o’clock, we were lost in dreams. 

In the morning the question was, how to find our party. 

“ Waiter, bring me a directory.” 

“ There is no directory, sir.” 

“ No directory? Then how shall we contrive to find our friends?” 

“ Monsieur has friends residing in Dresden ?” 

“No, no! our party that came last night from Leipsic.” 

“ At what hotel do they stop?” 

“ That is precisely what I wish to find out.” 

“ Will monsieur allow me to give their description to the police?” 

(0, ho, thought I; that is your directory, is it? Wonder if that is 
the reason you have none printed.) “Non, merci,” said I, and set off 
on foot to visit the principal hotels. I knew they would go by Murray 
or Bradshaw, and lo, sure enough they were at the Hotel Bellevue, just 
sitting down to breakfast. S. started as if she had seen a ghost. 

“ Why, where did you come from? What has happened? Where is 
H. ? We thought you were in Halle! ” 

Explanations followed. H. was speedily transferred to their hotel, 
where they had bespoken rooms for us; and we sallied forth to the court 
church to hear the music of high mass. 

This music is celebrated throughout Germany. It is, therefore, 
undoubtedly superior. The organ is noble, the opera company royal. 
But more perfect than all combined are the echoes of the church, which 
(though the guide book does not mention it) nullify every effect. 

Monday, 8. Visited the walks and gardens on the banks of the Elbe. 
The sky was clear, the weather glorious, and all nature full of joy. We 
almost think this Elbe another Seine; these Briihlsche gardens and 
terraces, these majestic old bridges, and cleft city, another Paris! Here, 
too, is that out-of-doors life, life in gardens, we admire so much. Break¬ 
fast in the public gardens ; hundreds of little groups sipping their coffee! 
Dinner, tea, and supper in the gardens, with music of birds and bands ! 

Visited the Picture Gallery. If one were to chance upon an altar in 


DRESDEN. 315 

tills German Athens inscribed to the “ unknown god,” he might be 
tempted to suggest that that deity’s name is Decency. 

The human form is indeed divine, as M. Belloc insists, and rightly, 
sacredly drawn, cannot offend the purest eye. All nature is symbolic. 
The universe itself is a complex symbol of spiritual ideas. So in the 
structure and relation of the human body, some of the highest spiritual 
ideas, the divinest mysteries of pure worship, are designedly shadowed 
forth. 

If, then, the painter rightly and sacredly conceives the divine mean¬ 
ing, and creates upon the canvas, or in marble, forms of exalted ideal 
loveliness, we cannot murmur even if, like Adam and Eve in Eden, 
“ they are naked, and are not ashamed.” 

And yet even sacred things love mystery, and holiest emotions claim 
reserve. Nature herself seems to tell us that the more sacred some 
works of art might be, the less they should be unveiled. There are 
flowers that will wither in the sun. The passion of love, when developed 
according to the divine order, is, even in its physical relations, so holy 
that it cannot retain its delicacy under the sultry blaze of profane 
publicity. 

But it is far otherwise with paintings where the animus is not sacred, 
nor the meaning spiritual. No excellences of colouring, no marvels of 
foreshortening, no miracles of mechanism can consecrate the salacious 
images of mythologic abomination. 

The cheek that can. forget to blush at the Venus and Cupid by Titian, 
at Leda and her Swan, at Jupiter and Io, and others of equally evil 
intent, ought never to pretend to blush at anything. Such pictures are 
a disgrace to the artists that painted, to the age that tolerates, and to 
the gallery that contains them. They are fit for a bagnio rather than a 
public exhibition. s. 

Evening. Dresden is the home of Madame Jenny Lind Goldschmidt. 
H. sent her card. This evening Mr. G. called to express regret that she 
was unable to see any one, on account of her recent confinement. He 
kindly offered us the use of his carriage and assistance in sightseeing. 
H. discussed with him the catalogues of the gallery of paintings. As to 
music, we learn, with regret, that it is out of season for concerts, ora¬ 
torios, or anything worth hearing. 

Wednesday, August 10. Dresden to Berlin. Drove to Charlotten- 
burg, and saw the monument of Queen Louisa. 

Thursday, 11. Visited the Picture Gallery, and various stores and 
shops. 

Saturday, August 13. Berlin to Wittenberg, two hours’ ride. Ex¬ 
amined the Schloss-Kirche, where Luther is buried, passing on our way 
through the public square containing his monument. 

At nine in the evening took cars for Erfurt. That night ride, with the 
moon and one star hanging beautifully over the horizon, was pleasant. 
There is a wild and thrilling excitement in thus plunging through the 
mysterious night in a land utterly unknown. Reached Erfurt at two in 
the morning. 

Monday, August 15. Erfurt to Eisenach by eight. Drove to the 
Wartburg. 


31G 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


LETTER XLIII. 


THE DRESDEH GALLERY.—SCHOEFFER. 

Lear:— 


Dresden, 


I went to Dresden as an art pilgrim, principally to see Raphael’s great 
picture of the Madonna di San Sisto, supposing that to be the best speci¬ 
men of his genius out of Italy. On my way I diligently studied the 
guide book of that indefatigable friend of the traveller, Mr. Murray, in 
which descriptions of the finest pictures are given, with the observations 
of artists ; so that inexperienced persons may know exactly what to 
think, and where to think it. My expectations had been so often dis¬ 
appointed, that my pulse was somewhat calmer. Nevertheless, the 
glowing eulogiums of these celebrated artists could not but stimulate 
anticipation. We made our way, therefore, first to the salon devoted to 
the works of Raphael and Correggio, and soon found ourselves before 
the grand painting. Trembling with eagerness, I looked up. Was that 
the picture ? W. whispered to me, ‘ ‘ I think we have mistaken the 
painting.” 

“No, we have not,” said I, strugglingto overcome the disappointment 
which I found creeping over me. The source of this disappointment 
was the thin and faded appearance of the colouring, which at first sug¬ 
gested to me the idea of a water-coloured sketch. It had evidently suf¬ 
fered barbarously in the process of cleaning, a fact of which I had been 
forewarned. This circumstance has a particularly unfavourable effect 
on a picture of Raphael’s, because his colouring, at best, is delicate and 
reserved, and, as compared with that of Rubens, approaches to poverty; 
so that he can ill afford to lose anything in this way. 

Then as to conception and arrangement, there was much which 
annoyed me. The Virgin and Child in the centre are represented as 
rising in the air ; on one side below them is the kneeling figure of Pope 
Sixtus ; and on the other, that of St. Barbara. Now this Pope Sixtus 
is, in my eyes, a very homely old man, and as I think no better of homely 
old men for being popes, his presence in the picture is an annoyance. 
St. Barbara, on the other side, has the most beautiful head and face that 
could be represented ; but then she is kneeling on a cloud with such a 
judicious and coquettish arrangement of her neck, shoulders, and face, 
to show every fine point in them, as makes one feel that no saint (unless 
with a Parisian education) could ever have dropped into such a position 
in the abandon of holy rapture. In short, she looks like a theatrical 
actress ; without any sympathy with the solemnity of the religious con¬ 
ception, who is there merely because a beautiful woman was wanted to 
fill up the picture. 

Then that old, faded green curtain, which is painted as hanging down 
on either side of the picture, is, to my eye, a nuisance. The whole 
interest, therefore, of the piece concentrates in the centre figures, the 
Madonna and Child, and two angel children gazing up from the foot of 
the picture. These angel children were the first point on which my 
mind rested, in its struggle to overcome its disappointment, and bring 
itself en rapport with the artist. In order fully to appreciate their 
spiritual beauty, one must have seen an assortment of those things called 


THE DRESDEN GALLERY. 


317 

angels, which occur in the works of the old masters. Generally speak¬ 
ing, I know of nothing more calculated to moderate any undue eager¬ 
ness to go to heaven than the common run of canvas angels. For the 
greater part are roistering, able-bodied fellows with wings, giving indis¬ 
putable signs of good living, and of a coarseness slightly suggestive of 
blackguardism. Far otherwise with these fair creatures, with their rain¬ 
bow-coloured wings, and their serene, upturned eyes of thought baptized 
with emotion. They are the first things I have seen worthy of my ideas 
of Raphael. 

As to the Madonna, I think that, when Wilkie says she is “nearer 
the perfection of female elegance and grace than anything in painting,” 
he does not speak with discrimination. Mere physical beauty and grace 
are not the characteristics of the figure : many more perfect forms can 
be found, both on canvas and in marble. But the merits of the figure, 
to my mind, are, first, its historic accuracy in representing the dark¬ 
eyed Jewish maiden; second, the wonderful fulness and depth of ex¬ 
pression thrown into the face ; and third, the mysterious resemblance 
and sympathy between the face of the mother and that of the divine 
child. To my eye, this picture has precisely that which Murillo’s 
Assumption in the Louvre wants : it has an unfathomable depth of 
earnestness. The Murillo is its superior in colouring and grace of arrange¬ 
ment. At first sight of the Murillo everyone exclaims at once, “How 
beautiful!”—at sight of this they are silent. Many are at first disap¬ 
pointed ; but the picture fastens the attention, and grows upon the 
thoughts ; while that of Murillo is dismissed with the words of admira¬ 
tion on the lips. 

This picture excited my ponderings and inquiries. There was a con¬ 
flict of emotion in that mother’s face, and shadowed mysteriously in the 
child’s, of which I queried, Was it fear? was it sorrow? was it adora¬ 
tion and faith ? was it a presage of the hour when a sword should pierce 
through her own soul ? Yet, with this, was there not a solemn triumph 
in the thought that she alone, of all women, had been called to that bap¬ 
tism of anguish ? And in that infant face there seemed a foreshadowing 
of the spirit which said, “ Now is my soul troubled ; and what shall I 
say ? Father, save me from this hour! But for this cause came I unto 
this hour.” 

The deep-feeling soul which conceived this picture has spread over the 
whole divine group a tender and transparent shadow of sorrow. It is 
this idea of sorrow in heaven—sorrow for the lost, in the heart of God 
himself—which forms the most sacred mystery of Christianity ; and into 
this innermost temple of sorrow had Raphael penetrated. He is a sacred 
poet, and his poetry has precisely that trait which Milton lacks—tender¬ 
ness and sympathy. This picture, so unattractive to the fancy in merely 
physical recommendations, has formed a deeper part of my inner con¬ 
sciousness than any I have yet seen. I can recall it with perfect dis¬ 
tinctness, and often return to ponder it in my heart. 

In this room there was also the chef-d’oeuvre of Correggio—his cele¬ 
brated Notte, or the Nativity of Jesus ; and, that you may know what 
I ought to have thought, I will quote you a sentence from Wilkie. 
“All the powers of art ai’e here united to make a perfect work. Here 
the simplicity of the drawing pf the Virgin and Child is shown in contrast 


318 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


with the foreshortening of the group of angels—the strongest unity of 
effect with the most perfect system of intricacy. The emitting the light 
from the body of the child, though a supernatural illusion, is eminently 
successful. The matchless beauty of the Virgin and Child, the group of 
angels overhead, the daybreak in the sky, and the whole arrangement of 
light and shadow, give it a right to be considered, in conception at least, 
the greatest of his works.” 

I said before that light and shadow were Correggio’s gods—that the 
great purpose for which he lived, moved, and had his being, was to show 
up light and shadow. Now, so long as he paints only indifferent objects, 

•—Nymphs, and Fauns, and mythologic divinities,—I had no objection. 
Light and shadow are beautiful things, capable of a thousand blendings, 
softenings, and harmonizings, which one loves to have represented : the 
great Artist of all loves light and shadow ; why else does he play such a 
magical succession of changes upon them through all creation ? But for 
an artist to make the most solemn mystery of religion a mere tributary 
to the exhibition of a trick of art, is a piece of profanity. What was in 
this man’s head when he painted this representation of the hour when his 
Maker was made flesh that he might redeem a world ? Nothing but 
chiaroscuro and foreshortening. This overwhelming scene would give 
him a fine chance to do two things : first, to represent a phosphorescent 
light from the body of the child ; and second, to show off some fore¬ 
shortened angels. Now, as to these angelsff I have simply to remark 
that I should prefer a seraph’s head to his heels : and that a group of 
archangels, kicking from the canvas with such alarming vigour, however 
much it may illustrate foreshortening, does not illustrate either glory to 
God in the highest, or peace on earth and good will to men. Therefore 
I have quarrelled with Correggio, as I always expected to do if he pro¬ 
faned the divine mysteries. How could any one, who had a soul to un¬ 
derstand that most noble creation of Raphael, turn, the next moment, to 
admire this ? 

Here also are six others of Correggio’s most celebrated paintings. 
They are all mere representations of the physical, with little of the moral. 
His picture of the Virgin and Child represents simply a very graceful, 
beautiful woman, holding a fine little child. His peculiar excellences in 
the management of his lights and shades appear in all. 

In one of the halls we found a Magdalen by Battoni, which gave me 
more pleasure, on first sight, than any picture in the gallery. It is a life- 
sized figure of the Magdalen stretched upon the gi*ound, reading an open 
Bible. I like it, first, because the figure is every way beautiful and well 
proportioned; second, on account of an elevated simplicity in the ar¬ 
rangement and general effect. The dark, rocky background throws out 
distinctly the beautiful figure, raised on one elbow, her long golden hair 
floating loosely down, as she bends forward over her book with parted 
lips, slightly flushed cheek, and an air of rapt and pleased attention. 
Though the neck and bosom are exposed, yet there is an angelic serious¬ 
ness and gravity in the conception of the piece which would check an 
earthly thought. The woman is of that high class about whom there 
might seem to be a hovering angelic presence—the perfection of beauty 
and symmetry, without a tinge of sensual attraction. 

All these rooms are full oi artists copying different paintings,—somo 


THE DRESDEN GALLERY. 319 

upon slabs of Dresden china,—producing pictures of exquisite finish, and 
very pretty as boudoir ornaments. 

After exhausting this first room, we walked through the galleries, 
which I will name, to give you some idea of their extent. 

Two rooms, of old German and Dutch masters, are curious as exhibit¬ 
ing the upward struggles of art. Many of the pictures are hard as a 
tavern sign, and as ill drawn ; but they mark the era of dawning effort. 

Then a long corridor of Dutch paintings, in which Rubens figures con¬ 
spicuously, displajdng, as usual, all manner of scarlet abominations, 
mixed with most triumphant successes. He has a boar hunt here, which 
is absolutely tenific. Rubens has a power peculiar to himself of throw¬ 
ing into the eyes of animals the phosphorescent magnetic gleam of life 
and passion. Here also was a sketch of his for a large picture at Munich 
of the Last Judgment, in which the idea of physical toidure is enlarged 
upon with a most revolting vigour of imagery. 

Then a small room devoted to the Spanish and Italian schools, con¬ 
taining pictures by Murillo and Velasquez. Then the French hall, 
where were two magnificent Claudes, the finest I had yet seen. They 
were covered with glass (a bad arrangement), which rendered one of 
them almost unseeable. I studied these long, with much interest. The 
combinations were poetical, the foregrounds minutely finished, even to 
the painting of flowers, and the fine invisible veil of ether that covers 
the natural landscape given as I have never before seen it. The pecu¬ 
liarity of these pieces is, that they are painted in green —a most common 
arrangement in God’s landscapes, but very uncommon in those of great 
masters. Painters give us trees and grounds, brown, yellow, red, choco¬ 
late, any colour, in short, but green. The reason of this is, that green 
is an exceedingly difficult colour to manage. I have seen sometimes, in 
spring, set against a deep blue sky, an array of greens, from lightest 
yellow to deepest blue of the pines, tipped and glittering with the after¬ 
noon’s sun, yet so swathed in some invisible, harmonizing medium, that 
the strong contrasts of colour jarred upon no sense. All seemed to be 
bound by the invisible cestus of some celestial Venus. Yet what painter 
would dare attempt the same? Herein lies the particular triumph of 
Claude. It is said that he took his brush and canvas into the fields, and 
there studied, hour after hour, into the mysteries of that airy medium 
which lies between the eye and the landscape, as also between the fore¬ 
ground and the background. Hence he, more than others, succeeds in 
giving the green landscape and the blue sky the same effect that God 
gives them. If, then, other artists would attain a like result, let them 
not copy Claude, but Claude’s master. Would that our American artists 
would remember that God’s pictures are nearer than Italy. To them it 
might be said (as to the Christian), “The word is nigh thee.” When 
we shall see a New England artist, with his easel, in the fields, seeking 
hour after hour to reproduce on the canvas the magnificent glories of an 
elm, with its firmament of boughs and branches,—when he has learned 
that there is in it what is worth a thousand Claudes—then the morning 
star of art will have risen on our hills. God send us an artist with a 
heart to reverence his own native mountains and fields, and to veil his 
face in awe when the great Master walks before his cottage door. When 
shall arise the artist whose inspiration shall be in prayer and in commu- 



320 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


nion with God?—whose eye, unsealed to behold his beauty in the natural 
world, shall offer up, on canvas, landscapes which shall be hymns and 
ascriptions? 

By a strange perversity, people seem to think that the Author of 
nature cannot or will not inspire art; but “He that formed the eye, 
shall he not see? he that planted the ear, shall he not hear ? ” Are not 
God’s works the great models, and is not sympathy of spirit with the 
Master necessary to the understanding of the models? 

But to continue our walk. We entered another Hutch apartment, 
embellished with works by Dietrich, prettily coloured, and laboriously 
minute; then into a corridor chiefly devoted to the works of Rembrandt 
and scholars. In this also were a number of those minute culinary 
paintings, in which cabbages, brass kettles, onions, potatoes, &c., are 
reproduced with praiseworthy industry. Many people are enraptured 
with these; but for my part I have but a very little more pleasure in a 
turnip, onion, or potato in a picture than out, and always wish that the 
industry and richness of colour had been bestowed upon things in them¬ 
selves beautiful. The great Master, it is true, gives these models, but 
he gives them not to be looked at, but eaten. If painters could only 
contrive to paint vegetables (cheaply) so that they could be eaten, I 
would be willing. 

Two small saloons are next devoted to the modern Dutch and German 
school. In these is Denner’s head of an old woman, which Cowper 
celebrates in a pretty poem—a marvel of faithful reproduction. One 
would think the old lady must have sat at least a year, till he had 
daguerreotyped every wrinkle and twinkle. How much better all this 
labour spent on the head of a good old woman than on the head of a 
cabbage! 

And now come a set of Italian rooms, in which we have some curious 
specimens of the Romish development in religion; as, for instance, the 
fathers Gregory, Augustine, and Jerome, meditating on the immaculate 
conception of the Virgin. Think of a painter employing all his powers 
in representing such a fog bank! 

Next comes a room dedicated to the works of Titian, in which two 
nude Venuses, of a very different character from the de Milon, are too 
conspicuous. Titian is sensuous ; a Greek, but not of the highest class. 

The next room is devoted to Paul Veronese. This Paul has quite a 
character of his own—a grand old Venetian, with his head full of stateli¬ 
ness, and court ceremony, and gorgeous conventionality, half Oriental in 
his passion for gold, and gems, and incense. As a specimen of the sub¬ 
jects in which his soul delights, take the following, which he has wrought 
up into a mammoth picture: Faith, Love, and Hope, presenting to the 
Virgin Mary a member of the old Venetian family of Concina, who, after 
having listened to the doctrines of the refonnation, had become reconciled 
to the church. Here is Paul’s piety, naively displayed by giving to the 
Virgin all the courtly graces of a high-born signorina. He paints, too, 
the Adoration of the Magi, because it gives such a good opportune to 
deal with camels, jewels, turbans, and all the trappings of Oriental roy¬ 
alty. The Virgin and Child are a small part of the affair. I like Paul 
because he is so innocently unconscious of anything deep to be expressed : 
so honestly intent on clothes, jewels, and colours. He is a magnificent 


THE DRESDEN GALLERY, 321 

master of ceremonies, and ought to have been kept by some King desirous 
of going down to posterity, to celebrate his royal praise and glory. 

Another room is devoted to the works of Guido. One or two of the 
Ecce Homo are much admired. To me they are, as compared with my 
conceptions of Jesus, more than inadequate. It seems to me that, if 
Jesus Christ should come again on earth, and walk through a gallery of 
paintings, and see the representations of sacred subjects, he would say 
again, as he did of old in the temple, “ Take these things hence !” 

How could men who bowed down before art as an idol, and worshipped 
it as an ultimate end, and thus sensualized it, represent these holy mys¬ 
teries, into which angels desired to look ? 

There are many representations of Christ here, set forth in the guide 
book as full of grace and majesty, which any soul who has ever felt his 
infinite beauty would reject as a libel. And as to the Virgin Mother, 
one’s eye becomes wearied in following the countless catalogue of the 
effeminate inane representations. 

There is more pathos and beauty in those few words of the Scripture, 
“ Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother,” than in all these 
galleries put together. The soul that has learned to know her from the 
Bible, loving without idolizing, hoping for blest communion with her be¬ 
yond the veil, seeking to imitate only the devotion which stood by the 
cross in the deepest hour of desertion, cannot be satisfied with these insi¬ 
pidities. 

Only once or twice have I seen anything like an approach towards the 
representations of the scriptural idea. One is this painting by Raphael. 
Another is by him, and is called Madonna Maison d’Alba : of this I have 
seen only a copy; it might have been painted on the words, “Now 
Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.” The 
figure is that of a young Jewess, between girl and womanhood, in whose 
air and eye are expressed at once the princess of the house of David, the 
poetess, and the thoughtful sequestered maiden. She is sitting on the 
ground, the book of the prophets in one hand, lying listless at her side ; 
the other hand is placed beneath the chin of her infant son, who looks 
inquiringly into her face. She does not see him—her eye has a sorrow¬ 
ful, far-darting look, as if beyond this flowery childhood she saw the dim 
image of a cross and a sepulchre. This was Mary. 

I have often thought that, in the reaction from the idolatry of Roman¬ 
ism, we Protestants were in danger of forgetting the treasures of religious 
sweetness, which the Bible has given us in her brief history. 

It seems to me the time demands the forming of a new school of art, 
based upon Protestant principles. For whatever vigour and originality 
there might once be in art, based on Romanism, it has certainly been 
worn threadbare by repetition. 

Apropos to this. During the time I was in Paris, I formed the ac¬ 
quaintance of Schoeffer, whose C/iristus Consolator and Remunerator and 
other works, have made him known in America. I went with a lady 
who has for many years been an intimate friend, and whose head has 
been introduced into several of his paintings. On the way she gave me 
Borne interesting particulars of him and his family. His mother was an 
artist—a woman of singularly ethereal and religious character. I here 
are three brothers devoted to art; of these Ary is the one best known Vi 

Y 





SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN HANDS. 


322 

America, and the most distinguished. For some time, while they were 
studying, they were obliged to be separated, arid the mother, to keep up 
the sympathy between them, used to copy the design of the one with 
whom she resided for the other two. A singular strength of attachment 
unites the family. 

We found Schoeffer in retired lodgings in the outskirts of Paris, and 
were presented to his very pretty and agreeable English wife. In his 
studio we saw a picture of his mother, a most lovely and delicate woman, 
dressed in white, like one of the saints in the Revelation. 

Then we saw his celebrated picture, Francesca Rimini, representing a 
cloudy, dark, infernal region, in which two hapless lovers are whirled 
round and round in mazes of never-ending wrath and anguish. His face 
is hid from view ; his attitude expresses the extreme of despair. But she 
clinging to his bosom—what words can tell the depths of love, of anguish, 
and of endurance unconquerable, written in her pale sweet face ! The 
picture smote to my heart like a dagger thrust; I felt its mournful, ex¬ 
quisite beauty as a libel on my Father in heaven. 

No. It is not God who eternally pursues undying, patient love with 
storms of vindictive wrath. Alas! well said Jesus, “0 righteous 
Father, the world hath not known thee.” The day will come when it 
will appear that in earth’s history the sorrowing, invincible tenderness 
has been all on his part, and that the strange word, long-suffering, means 
just what it says. 

Nevertheless, the power and pathos of this picture cannot be too much 
praised. The colouring is beautiful, and though it pained me so much, I 
felt that it was one of the most striking works of art I had seen. 

Schoeffer showed us a large picture, about half finished, in which ho 
represents the gradual rise of the soul through the sorrows of earth to 
heaven. It consisted of figures grouped together, those nearest earth 
bowed down and overwhelmed with the most crushing and hopeless sor¬ 
row ; above them are those who are beginning to look upward, and the 
sorrow in their faces is subsiding into azixious inquiry ; still above them 
are those who, having caught a gleam of the sources of consolation, ex- 
prt ss in their faces a solemn calmness ; and still higher, rising in the air, 
figures with clasped hands, and absorbed upward gaze, to whose eye the 
mystery has been unveiled, the enigma solved, and sorrow glorified. One 
among these, higher than the rest, with a face of rapt adoration, seems 
entering the very gate of heaven. 

He also showed us an unfinished picture of the Temptation of Christ. 
IJpon a cleaz*, aerial, mountain top, Satan, a thunder-scared, unearthly 
figure, kneeling, points earnestly to the distant view of the kingdoms of 
this world. There is a furtive and peculiar expression of eager anxietv 
betrayed in his face, as if the bitterness of his own blasted eternity cor 
find a momentary consolation in this success. It is the expression of 
general, who has staked all his fortune on one die. Of the figure of Jesus 
I could not judge, in its unfinished state. Whether the artist will solve 
the problem of uniting energy with sweetness, the Godhead with the 
manhood, remains to be seen. 

The paintings of Jesus are generally unsatisfactory; but Schoeffer has 
approached nearer towards expressing my idea than any artist I have yet 
seen. 




SCHOEFFER. 


323 

The knowing ones are much divided about Schoeffer. Some say he is 
no painter. Nothing seems to me so utterly without rule or compass as 
this world of art. Divided into little cliques, each with his shibboleth, 
artists excommunicate each other as heartily as theologians, and a neophyte 
who should attempt to make up a judgment by their help would be obliged 
to shift opinions with every circle. 

I therefore look with my own eyes, for if not the best that might be, 
they are the best that God has given me. 

Schoeffer is certainly a poet of a high order. His ideas are beautiful 
and religious, and his power of expression quite equal to that of many 
old masters, who had nothing very particular to express. 

I should think his chief danger lay in falling into mannerism, and too 
often repeating the same idea. He has a theory of colouring which is in 
danger of running out into coldness and poverty of effect. His idea 
seems to be, that in the representation of spiritual subjects the artist 
should avoid the sensualism of colour, and give only the most chaste and 
severe tone. Hence he makes much use of white, pale blue, and cloudy 
grays, avoiding the gorgeousness of the old masters. But it seems pro¬ 
bable that in the celestial regions there is more, rather than less, of 
brilliant colouring than on earth. What can be more brilliant than the 
rainbow, yet what more perfectly free from earthly grossness ? Never¬ 
theless, in looking at the pictures of Schoeffer there is such a serene and 
spiritual charm spread over them, that one is little inclined to wish them 
other than they are. No artist that I have ever seen, not even "Raphael, 
has more power of glorifying the human face by an exalted and unearthly 
expression. His head of Joan of Arc, at Versailles, is a remarkable 
example. It is a commentary on that scripture—“And they beheld his 
face, as it were the face of an angel.” 

Schoeffer is fully possessed with the idea of which I have spoken, of 
raising Protestant art above the wearisome imitations of Romanism. 
The object is noble and important. I feel that he must succeed. 

His best award is in the judgments of the unsophisticated heart. A 
painter who does not burn incense to his palette and worship his brushes, 
who reverences ideas above mechanism, will have all manner of evil 
spoken against him by artists, but the human heart will always accept 
him. 


LETTER XLIV. 

EE EL IN'.—THE PALACE.—THE MUSETBT. 

Berlin, August ICt 

My Dear:— 

Here we are in Berlin—a beautiful city. These places that kings 
build have, of course, more general uniformity and consistency of stjde 
than those that grow up by chance. The prevalence of the Greek style 
of architecture, the regularity and breadth of the streets, the fine trees, 
especially in the Under den Linden, on which are our rooms, struck me 
more than anything I have seen since Paris. Why Paris charms me so 
much more than other cities of similar recommendations, I cannot say, 
any more than a man can tell why he is fascinated by a lady-love no fairer 

y2 



324 


SUNNY MEMORIES OP POKEIGN LANDS. 


to his reason than a thousand others. Perhaps it is the reflected charm 
of the people I knew there, that makes it seem so sunny. 

This afternoon we took a guide, and went first through the royal 
palace. The new chapel, which is being built by the present prince, is 
circular in form, with a dome one hundred and thirty feet high. The 
space between the doors is occupied by three circular recesses, with 
figures of prophets and apostles in fresco. Over one door is the Nativity 
•—over the other, the Resurrection—also in fresco. On the walls around 
were pictures somewhat miscellaneous, I thought; for example, John 
Huss, St. Cecilia, Melancthon, Luther, several women, saints, apostles, 
and evangelists. These paintings are all by the first German artists. 
The floor is a splendid mosaic, and the top of the dome is richly adorned 
with frescoes. Still, though beautiful, the chapel seemed to me deficient 
in unity of effect. One admires the details too much to appreciate it as 
a whole. We passed through the palace rooms. Its paintings are far 
inferior to those of Windsor. The finest royal paintings have gone to 
adorn the walls of the Museum. There was one magnificent Vandyke, 
into which he has introduced a large dog—some relief from his eternal 
horses. There was David’s picture of Bonaparte crossing the Alps, of 
which Mrs. P. has the engraving, and you can tell her that it is much 
more impressive than the painting. Opposite to this picture hangs 
Blucher, looking about as amiable as one might suppose a captain of a 
regiment of mastiffs. Our guide, pointing to the portrait of Napoleon, 
with evident pride, said, “Blucher brought that from Paris. He said 
Napoleon had carried so many pictures from other countries to Paris, that 
now he should be carried away himself.” 

There were portraits of Queen Louisa, very beautiful; of Queen Vic¬ 
toria, a present; one of the Empress of Russia; also a statue of the 
latter. The ball-room contained a statue of Victory, by Ranch, a beau¬ 
tiful female figure, the model of which, we were told, is his own daughter. 
He had the grace to allow her some clothing, which was fatherly, for an 
artist. The palace rooms were very magnificent. The walls were 
covered with a damask of silk and gold, into which was inwrought the 
Prussian eagle. In the crowning room was an immense quantity of 
plate, in solid gold and silver. The guide seemed not a little proud of 
our king, princes, and palace. Men will attach themselves to power 
and splendour as naturally as moss will grow on a rock. There is, 
perhaps, a foundation for this in human nature—witness the Israelites 
of old, who could not rest till they obtained a king. The guide told 
us there were nine hundred rooms in the palace, but that he should only 
take us through the best. We were duly sensible of the mercy. 

Then we drove to Charlottenburg to see the Mausoleum. I know not 
when I have been more deeply affected than there; and yet, not so much 
by the sweet, lifelike statue of the queen as by that of the king, her hus¬ 
band, executed by the same hand. Such an expression of long-desired 
rest, after suffering and toil, is shed over the face!—so sweet, so heavenly! 
There, where he has prayed year after year,—hoping, yearning, longing, 
—there at last he rests, life’s long anguish over! My heart melted as I 
looked at these two, so long divided,—he so long a mourner, she so long 
mourned,—now calmly resting side by side in a sleep so tranquil. 

We went through the palace. We saw the present king’s writing desk 







BERLIN. 


325 

and table in bis study, just as he left them. His writing establishment 
is about as plain as yours. Men who really mean to do anything do not 
use fancy tools. His bed-room; also, is in a style of severe simplicity. 
There were several engravings fastened against the wall; and in the 
ante-room a bust and medallion of the Empress Eugenie—a thing which 
I should not exactly have expected in a born king’s palace; but beauty 
is sacred, and kings cannot call it parvenu. Then we went into the 
queen’s bed-room, finished in green, and then through the rooms of 
Queen Louisa. Those marks of her presence, which you saw during the 
old king’s lifetime, are now’- removed: we saw no traces of her dresses, 
gloves, or books. In one room, draped in white muslin over pink, we 
were informed the Empress of Russia was born. 

In going out to Charlottenburg, we rode through the Thiergarten, the 
Tuileries of Berlin. In one of the most quiet and sequestered spots is 
the monument erected by the people of Berlin to their old king. The 
pedestal is Carrara marble, sculptured with beautiful scenes called garden 
pleasures—children in all manner of out-door sports, and parents fondly 
looking on. It is graceful, and peculiarly appropriate to those grounds 
where parents and children are constantly congregating. The whole is 
surmounted by a statue of the king, in white marble—the finest, repre¬ 
sentation of him I have ever seen. Thoughtful, yet benign, the old king 
seems like a good father keeping a grave and affectionate watch over the 
pleasures of his children in their garden frolics. There was something 
about these moss-grown gardens that seemed so rural and pastoral, that 
I at once preferred them to all I had seen in Europe. Choice flowers 
are planted in knots, here and there, in sheltered nooks, as if they had 
grown by accident; and an air of sweet, natural wildness, is left amid 
the most careful cultivation. The people seemed to be enjoying them¬ 
selves less demonstratively and with less vivacity than in France, but 
with a calm inwardness. Each nation has its own. way of being happy, 
and the style of life in each bears a certain relation of appropriateness to 
character. The trim, gay, dressy, animated air of the Tuileries suits 
admirably with the mobile, sprightly vivacity of society there. Both, in 
their way, are beautiful; but this seems less formal, and more according 
to nature. 

As we were riding home, our guide, who was a full feathered monarch¬ 
ist, told us, with some satisfaction, the number of palaces in Prussia. 
Suddenly, to my astonishment, “Young America” struck into the con¬ 
versation in the person of little G-. 

“We do things more economically in America. Our president don’t 
have sixty palaces; he has to be satisfied with one White House.” 

The guide entered into an animated defence of king and country. 
These palaces—did not the king keep them for the people? did he not 
bear all the expenses of caring for them, that they might furnish public 
pleasure grounds and exhibition rooms? Had we not seen the people 
walking about in them, and enjoying themselves? 

This was all true enough, and we assented. The guide continued, 
Hid not the king take the public money to make beautiful museums for 
the people, where they could study the fine arts?—and did our govern¬ 
ment do any such thing ? 

I thought of our surplus revenue, and laid my hand on my mouth. 






326 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


But yet there is a progress of democratic principle indicated by this very 
understanding that the king is to hold things for the benefit of the 
people. Times are altered since Louis XIV. was instructed by his tutor, 
as he looked out on a crowd of people, “These are all yours;” and since 
he said, “ L’etat , c'estmoi .” 

Our guide seemed to feel bound, however, to exhaust himself in com¬ 
parison of our defects with their excellences. 

“Some Prussians went over to America to live,” he said, “and had 
to come back again; they could not live there.” 

“ Why not?” said I. 

“ 0, they said there was nothing done there but working and going 
to church!” 

“That’s a fact,” said W., with considerable earnestness. 

“Yes,” said our guide; “they said we have but one life to live, and 
we want to have some comfort in it.” 

It is a curious fact, that just in proportion as a country is free and 
self-governed it has fewer public amusements. America and Scotland 
have the fewest of any, and Italy the most. Nevertheless, I am far 
from thinking that this is either necessary or desirable: the subject of 
providing innocent public amusements for the masses is one that we 
ought seriously to consider. In Berlin, and in all other German cities, 
there are gardens and public grounds in which there are daily concerts 
oi a high order, and various attractions, to which people can gain admit¬ 
tance for a very trifling sum. These refine the feelings, and cultivate 
the taste; they would be particularly useful in America in counteracting 
that tendency to a sordid materialism, which is one of our great national 
dangers. 

We went over the Berlin Museum. In general style Greek—but 
Greek vitalized by the infusion of the German mind. In its general 
arrangements one of the most gorgeous and impressive combinations of 
art which I have seen. Here are the great frescoes of Kaulbach, Cor¬ 
nelius, and other German artists, who have so grafted Grecian ideas into 
the German stock, that the growth has the foliage and colouring of a 
new plant. One set of frescoes, representing the climate and scenery of 
Greece, had on me a peculiar and magical effect. Alas! there never 
has been the Greece that we conceive; we see it under the soft, purple 
veil of distance, like an Alpine valley embraced by cloudy mountains ; 
but there was the same coarse dust and debris of ordinary life there as 
with us. The true Arcadia lies beyond the grave. The collection of 
pictures is rich in historic curiosities—valuable as marking the progress 
of art. One Claude Lorraine here was a matchless specimen—a perfect 
victory over all the difficulties of green landscape painting. 


LETTER XLV. 

WITTENBERG.—LUTHER’S HOUSE— MELANCTHON’S HOUSE. 

Wittenberg. 

My Dear :— 

I am here in the station house at Wittenberg. I have been seeing 
and hearing to-day for you, and now sit down to put on paper the 
results of my morning. “What make you from Wittenberg?” Wit- 



WITTENBERG-. 


32 A ! 

fcenberg! name of the dreamy past; dimly associated with Hamlet 
Denmark, the moonlight terrace, and the Baltic Sea, by one line c 
Shakspeare ; but made more living by those who have thought, loved 
and died here; nay, by those who cannot die, and whose life has beei 
life to all coming ages. 

How naturally, on reaching a place long heard of and pondered, dr 
we look round for something uncommon, quaint, and striking ! Nothing 
of the kind was here; only the dead flat of this most level scenery, witl 
its dreary prairie-like sameness. Certainly it was not this scenery that 
stirred up a soul in Luther, and made him nail up his theses on the 
Wittenberg church door. 

“But, at any rate, let us go to Wittenberg,” said I; “get a guide, 
a carriage, cannot you?” as I walked to one window of the station 
house and another, and looked out to see something wonderful. Nothing 
was in sight, however; and after the usual sputter of gutturals which 
precedes any arrangement in this country, we were mounted in a high, 
awkward carriage, and rode to the town. Two ancient round towers 
and a wall first met my eye; then a drawbridge, arched passage, and 
portcullis. Under this passage we passed, and at our right hand was 
the church, where once was laid the worn form that had stood so many 
whirlwinds—where, in short, Luther was buried. But this we did not 
then know; so we drove by, and went to a hotel. Talked English and 
got German ; talked French with no better success. At last, between 
W., G., and the dictionary, managed to make it understood that we 
wanted a guide to the Luther relics. A guide was after a time forth¬ 
coming, in the person of a little woman who spoke no English, whom, 
guide book in hand, we followed. 

The church is ancient, and, externally, impressive enough; inside it 
is wide, cold, whitewashed, prosaic; whoever gets up feeling does it 
against wind and tide, so far as appearances are concerned. We advance 
to the spot in the floor where our guide raises a trap-door, and shows us 
underneath the plate inscribed with the name of Luther, and by it the 
plate recording the resting-place of his well-beloved Philip Melancthon ; 
then to the grave of the Elector of Saxony, and John the Steadfast; on 
one side a full length of Luther, by Lucas Cranach; on the other, one 
of Melancthon, by the same hand. Well, we have seen; this is all; 
“He is not here, he is risen.” “Is this all?” “All,” says our guide, 
and we go out. I look curiously at the old door where Luther nailed 
up his theses ; but even this is not the identical door; that was destroyed 
by the French. Still, under that arched doorway he stood, hammer 
and nails in hand; he held up his paper, he fitted it straight; rap, rap, 
—there, one nail—another—it is up, and he stands looking at it. These 
very stones were over that head that are now over mine, this very ground 
beneath his feet. As I turned away I gave an earnest look at the old 
church. Grass is growing on its buttresses; it has a desolate look, 
though strong and well kept. The party pass on, and I make haste to 
overtake them. 

Down we go, doing penance over the round paving stones ; and our 
J?ext halt is momentary. In the market-place, before the town house, 
(a huge, three-gabled building, like a beast of three horns,) stands 
Luther’s bronze monument; apple women and pear women, onion and 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


328 

beet women, are thickly congregated around, selling as best they may. 
There stands Luther, looking benignantly, holding and pointing to the 
open Bible; the women, meanwhile, thinking we want fruit, hold up 
their wares and talk German. But our conductress has a regular guide’s 
trot, inexorable as fate; so on we go. 

Wittenberg is now a mean little town ; all looks poor and low ; yet it 
seems like a place that has seen better days. Houses, now used as 
paltry shops, have, some of them, carved oaken doors, with antic freaks 
of architecture, which seem to signify that their former owners were 
able to make a figure in the world. In fact, the houses seem a sort of 
phantasmagoria of decayed gentlefolk, in the faded, tarnished, old- 
fashioned finery of the past. Our guide halts her trot suddenly before a 
house, which she announces as that of Louis Cranach ; then on she 
goes. Louis is dead, and Magdalen, his wife also ; so there is no one there 
to welcome us; on we go also. Once Louis was a man of more consequence. 

Now we come to Luther’s house—apart of the old convent. Wide 
yawns the stone doorway of the court; a grinning masque grotesquely 
Jooks down from its centre, and odd carvings from the sides. A colony 
of swallows have established their nests among the queer old carvings 
and gnome-like faces, and are twittering in and out, superintending 
their domestic arrangements. We enter a court surrounded with build¬ 
ings ; then ascend, through a strange doorway, a winding staircase, 
passing small, lozenge-shaped windows. Up these stairs he oft trod, in 
all the moods of that manifold and wonderful nature—gay, joyous, 
jocose, fei’vent, defiant, imploring ; and up these stairs have trod won¬ 
dering visitors, thronging from all parts of the world, to see the man of 
the age. Up these stairs come Philip Melancthon, Lucas Cranach, and 
their wives, to see how fares Luther after some short journey, or some 
new movement. Now, all past, all solitary; the stairs dirty, the win¬ 
dows dim. 

And this is Luther’s room. It was a fine one in its day, that is plain. 
The arched recesses of the windows ; the roof divided in squares, and, 
like the walls and cornice, painted in fresco ; the windows, with their 
quaint, round panes—all, though now so soiled and dim, speak plainly 
of a time when life was here, and all things wore a rich and joyous glow. 
In this room that great heart rejoiced in the blessedness of domestic life, 
and poured forth some of those exulting strains, glorifying the family 
state, which yet remain. Here his little Magdalen, his little Jacky, and 
the rest made joyous uproar. 

There stands his writing table, a heavy mass of wood ; clumsy as the 
time and its absurdities, rougher now than ever, in its squalid old age, 
and partly chipped away by relic seekers. Here he sat; here lay his 
paper ; over this table was bent that head whose brain power was the 
earthquake of Europe. Here he wrote books which he says were rained, 
hailed and snowed from the press in every language and tongue. Kings 
and emperors could not bind the influence from his writing table; and 
yet here, doubtless, he wrestled, struggled, prayed, and such tears as 
only he could shed fell upon it. Nothing of all this says the table. It 
only stands a poor, ungainly relic of the past; the inspiring angel is 
gone upward. 

Catharine’s nicely-carved cabinet, with its huge bunches of oaken 


luther’s house. 


329 

flowers hanging down between its glass panels, shows Luther’s drinking 
cup. There is also his embroidered portrait, on which, doubtless, she 
expended much thought, as she evidently has much gold thread. I seem 
to see her conceiving the bold design—she will work the doctor’s like¬ 
ness. She asks Magdalen Cranach’s opinion, and Magdalen asks Lucas’s, 
and there is a deal of discussion, and Lucas makes wise suggestions. In 
the course of many fireside chats, the thing grows. Philip and his Kate 
dropping in, are shown it. Little Jacky and Magdalen, looking shyly 
over their mother’s shoulder, are wonderfully impressed with the like¬ 
ness, and think their mother a great woman. Luther takes it in hand, 
and passes some jests upon it, which make them laugh all round, and so 
at last it grows to be a veritable likeness. Poor, faded, tarnished thing! 
it looks like a ghost now. 

In one corner is a work of art by Luther—no less than a stove planned 
after his own pattern. It is a high, black, iron pyramid, panelled, each 
panel presenting in relief some Scripture subject. Considering the remote 
times, this stove is quite an affair : the figures are, some of them, spirited 
and well conceived, though now its lustre, like all else here, is obscured 
by dust and dirt. Why do the Germans leave this place so dirty 1 The 
rooms of Shakspeare are kept clean and in repair ; the Catholics enshrine 
in gold and silver the relics of their saints, but this Protestant Mecca is 
left literally to the moles and the bats. 

I slipped aside a panel in the curious old windows, and looked down 
into the court surrounded by the university buildings. I fancied the old 
times when students, with their scholastic caps and books, were momently 
passing and repassing. I thought of the stir there was here when the 
pope’s bull against Luther came out, and of the pattering of feet and 
commotion there were in this court, when Luther sallied out to bum the 
pope’s bull under the oak, just beyond the city wall near by. The 
students thought it good fun ; students are always progressive; they 
admired the old boy for his spirit; they threw up caps and shouted, and 
went out to see the ceremony with a will. Philip Melancthon wondered 
if brother Martin was not going a little too fast, but hoped it would bo 
overruled, and that all would be for the best! So, coming out, I 
looked longingly beyond the city gate, and wanted to go to the place of 
the oak tree, where the ceremony was performed, but the party had 
gone on. 

Coming back, I made a pause opposite the house on which is seen the 
inscription, “Here Melancthon lived, laboured, and died.” A very 
good house it was, too, in its day. I went across the street to take a 
good look at it; then I came over, and as the great arched door stood 
open, I took the liberty of walking in. Like other continental houses, 
this had an arched passage running through to a back court and a side 
door. A stone stairway led up from this into the house, and a small 
square window, with little round panes, looked through into the passage. 
A young child was toddling about there, and I spoke to it; a man came 
out, and looked as if he rather wondered what I might be about; so I 
retreated. Then I threaded my way past queer peaked-roofed buildings 
to a paved court, where stood the old church—something like that in 
Halle, a great Gothic structure, with two high towers connected by a 
gallery. I entered. Like the other church it has been whitewashed, and 


330 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


has few architectural attractions. It is very large, with two galleries, 
one over the other, and might hold, I should think, five thousand people. 

Here Luther preached. These walls, now so silent, rung to the rare 
melody of that voice, to which the Roman Catholic writers attributed 
some unearthly enchantment, so did it sway all who listened. Here, 
clustering round these pillars, standing on these flags, were myriads of 
human beings ; and what heart-beatings, what surgings of thought, what 
tempests of feeling, what aspirations, what strivings, what conflicts shook 
that multitude, and possessed them as he spoke ! “I preach,” he said, 
“not for prolessor this or that, nor for the elector or prince, but for poor 
Jack behind the door;” and so, striking only on the chords common to 
all hearts, he bowed all, for he who can inspire the illiterate and poor, 
callous with ignorance and toil, can move also the better informed. 
Here, also, that voice of his, which rose above the choir and organ, sang 
the alto in those chorals which he gave to the world. Monmouth, sung 
in this great church by five thousand voices, must needs have a magni¬ 
ficent sound. 

The altar-piece is a Lord’s Supper, by Louis Cranach, who appears in 
the foreground as a servant. On each side are the pictures of the Sacra¬ 
ments. In baptism, Melancthon stands by a laver, holding a dripping 
baby, whom he has just immersed, one of Luther’s children, I suppose, 
for he is standing by; a venerable personage in a long beard holds the 
towel to receive the little neophyte. From all I know of babies, I 
should think this form of baptism liable to inconvenient accessories and 
consequences. On the other side, Luther is preaching, and opposite, 
foremost of his audience are, Catharine and her little son. Every¬ 
thing shows how strictly intimate were Luther, Melancthon, and 
Cranach ; good sociable times they had together. A slab elaborately 
carved, in the side of the church, marks the last rest of Lucas and Mag¬ 
dalen Cranach. 

I passed out of the church, and walked slowly down to the hotel, pur¬ 
chasing by the way, at a mean little shop, some tolerable engravings of 
Luther’s room, the church, &c. To show how immutable everything 
has been in Wittenberg since Luther died, let me mention that on 
coining back through the market-place, we found spread out for sale upon a 
cloth about a dozen pairs of shoes of the precise pattern of those belong¬ 
ing to Luther, which we had seen in Frankfort- clumsy, rude, and heel¬ 
less. I have heard that Swedenborg said, that in his visit to the invisible 
world, he encountered a class of spirits who had been there fifty years, 
and had not yet found out that they were dead. These YVittenbergers, 

I think, must be of the same conservative turn of mind. 

Failing to get a carriage to the station, we started to walk. I paused 
a moment before the church, to make some little corrections and emen¬ 
dation in my engravings, and thought, as I was doing so, of that quite 
other scene years ago, when the body of Luther was borne through this 
gate by a concourse of weeping thousands. These stones, on which I 
was standing, then echoed all night to the tread of a closely-packed mul¬ 
titude—a muffed sound like the patter of rain among leaves. There 
rose through thelong dark hours, alternately, the unrestrained sobbings 
of the throng, and the grand choral of Luther’s psalms, words and music 
of his own. Never since the world began was so strange a scene as that. 


“WITTENBERG. 


331 


I felt a kind of shadow from it, as I walked homeward gazing on the 
flat dreamy distance. A great windwill was creaking its sombre, lazy 
vanes round and round,—strange goblin things these windmills,—and I 
thought of one of Luther’s sayings: “The heart of a human creature 
is like the millstones: if corn be shaken thereon, it grindeth the corn, and 
maketh good meal; but if no corn be there, then it grindeth away itself.” 
Luther tried the latter process all the first part of his life; but he got the 
corn at last, and a magnificent grist he made. 

Arrived at the station, we found we must wait till half past five in the 
afternoon for the train. This would have been an intolerable doom in 
the disconsolate precincts of an English or American station, but not in 
a German one. As usual, this had a charming garden, laid out with 
exquisite taste, and all glowing and fragrant with plats of verbena, 
fuschias, heliotropes, mignonette, pansies, while rows of hothouse flowers, 
set under the shelter of neatly trimmed hedges, gave brightness to the 
scene. Among all these pretty grounds were seats and walks, and a 
gardener, with his dear pipe in his mouth, was moving about watering 
his dear flowers, thus combining the two delights of a German, flowers 
and smoke. These Germans seem an odd race, a mixture of clay and 
spirit—what with their beer drinking and smoking, and their slow stolid 
ways, you would think them perfectly earthly; but an ethereal fire is all 
the while working in them, and bursting out in most unexpected little 
jets of poetry and sentiment, like blossoms on a cactus. 

The station room was an agreeable one, painted prettily in frescoes, 
with two sofas. So we arranged ourselves in a party. S. and I betook 
ourselves to our embroidery, and C. read aloud to us, or tried the Amati, 
and when we were tired of reading and music we strolled in the garden, 
and I wrote to you. 

1 wonder why we Anglo-Saxons cannot imitate the liberality of the 
continent in the matter of railroad stations, and give the traveller some¬ 
thing more agreeable than the grim, bare, forbidding places, which now 
obtain in England and America. This Wittenberg is but a paltry town; 
and yet how much care is spent to make the station house comfortable 
and comely! I may here say that nowhere in Europe is railway travel¬ 
ling so entirely convenient as in Germany, particularly in Prussia. All 
is systematic and orderly; no hurrying or shoving, or disagreeable fuss 
at stations. The second class cars are, in most points, as good as the 
first class in England; the conductors are dignified and gentlemanly; 
you roll on at a most agreeable pace from one handsome station house to 
another, finding yourself disposed to be pleased with everything. 

There is but one drawback to all this, and that is the smoking. My¬ 
thologically represented, these Germans might be considered as a race 
bom of chimneys, with a necessity for smoking in their very nature. A 
German walking without his pipe is only a dormant volcano; it is in 
him to smoke all the while; you may be sure the crater will begin to 
fume before long. Smoking is such an acknowledged attribute of man¬ 
hood, that the gentler sex seem to have given in to it as one of the im¬ 
mutable things of nature; consequently all the public places where both 
sexes meet are redolent of tobacco! You see a gentleman doing the 
agreeable to a lady, cigar in mouth, treating her alternately to an obser¬ 
vation and a whiff; both of which seem to her equally matters of course, 


332 


SUNNY MEMORIES OE FOREIGN LANDS. 


In the cars some attempt at regulation subsists; there are cars marked 
“Nick rauchen” into which toe were always very careful to get; but even 
in these it is not always possible to make a German suspend an operation 
which is to him about the same as breathing. 

On our way from Frankfort to Halle, in a “ nick rauchen" car, too, 
a jolly old gentleman, whose joyous and abundant German sounded to 
me like the clatter of a thousand of brick, wound up a kind of promis¬ 
cuous avalanche of declamation by pulling a matchbox from his pocket, 
and proceeding deliberately to light his pipe. The tobacco was detest¬ 
able. Now, if a man must smoke, I think he is under moral obligation 
to have decent tobacco. I began to turn ill, and C. attacked the offender 
in French; not a word did he understand, and puffed on tranquil and 
happy. The idea that anybody did not like smoke was probably the 
last that could ever be made to enter his head, even in a language that 
he did understand. C. then enlisted the next neighbour, who understood 
French, and got him to interpret that smoke made the lady ill. The 
chimney-descended man now took his pipe out, and gazed at it and me 
alternately, with an air of wondering incredulity, and seemed trying to 
realize some vast conception, but failing in the effort, put his pipe back, 
and smoked as before! Some old ladies now amiably offered to change 
places with me, evidently regarding me as the victim of some singular 
idiosyncrasy. As I changed, a light seemed to dawn on the old chimney’s 
mind — a good-natured one he was; he looked hard at me, and his whiffs 
became fainter till at last they ceased, and he never smoked more till I 
was safe out of the cars. 


LETTER XLYI. 

JERFURT.—THE CATHEDRAL.—LUTHER’S CELL.—THE WARTBUEG. 

Erfurt, Saturday Evening. 

My Dear-:— 

I have just been to Luther’s cell in the old Augustine Convent, and if 
my pilgrimage at Wittenberg was less interesting by the dirt and dis¬ 
comfort of the actual present, here were surroundings less calculated to 
jar on the frame the scene should inspire. It was about sunset,—a very 
golden and beautiful one,—and C. and I drove through various streets 
of this old town. I believe I am peculiarly alive to architectural excite¬ 
ments, for these old houses, with their strange windows, odd chimneys, 
and quaint carvings, delight me wonderfully. Many of them are almost 
gnome-like in their uncouthness; they please me none the less for 
that. 

We drove first to the cathedral, which, with an old deserted church, 
seemingly part of itself, forms a pile of Gothic architecture, a wilderness 
of spires, minarets, arches, and what not, more picturesque than any 
cathedral I have seen. It stands high on a sort of platform overlooking 
a military parade ground, and rer Fed by a long flight of steps. 

The choir is very beautiful. I cannot describe how these lofty arches, 
with their stained glass windows, touch my heart. Architecture never 
can, and never will, produce their like again. They give us aspiration 
in its highest form and noblest symbol, and wonderful was that mind 




333 


LUTHEr’s CELL AT ERFURT. 

winch conceived them. This choir so darkly bright, its stalls and seats 
carved in black oak, its flame-like arches, gorgeous with evening light, 
were a preparation and excitement of mind. Yet it is remarkable about 
these old-time cathedrals, that while there is every grand and solemn 
effect of architecture, there is also always an abundance of subordinate 
parts, mean, tawdry, revolting, just like the whole system they re¬ 
present. Out of this beautiful choir I wanted to tear all the tinsel fix¬ 
tures of its altar, except two very good pictures, and leave it in its noble 
simplicity. 

I remarked here a black oak chandelier, which the guide said w r as 
taken from the cathedral of Cologne. It was the very perfection of Gothic 
carving, and resembled frostwork in its lightness. The floor of the 
cathedral was covered with effigies in stone, trod smooth by the feet of 
worshippers; so we living ones are ever walking above the dead, though 
we do not always, as here, see the outward sign thereof. 

From the cathedral we passed out, and stopped a moment to examine 
the adjoining church, now deserted, but whose three graceful spires have 
a peculiar beauty. After a turn upon the platform we descended, and 
drove to the Augustine Convent, now used as an orphan asylum. We 
ascended through a court-yard, full of little children, by some steps into 
a gallery, where a woman came out with her keys. We passed first 
into a great hall, the walls of which were adorned with Holbein’s Dance 
of Death. 

From this hall we passed into Luther’s room—a little cell, ten feet 
square; the walls covered with inscriptions from his writings. There we 
saw his inkstand, his pocket Testament, a copy of the Bible that was 
presented to him, (by whom I could not understand,) splendidly bound 
and illuminated. But it was the cell itself which affected me, the windows 
looking out into what were the cloisters of the monastery. Here was 
that struggle—that mortal agony—that giant soul convulsing and wearing 
down that strong frame. These walls! to what groans, to what prayers 
had they listened! Could we suppose a living human form imperishable, 
capable of struggling and suffering, but not of dying, buried beneath the 
whole weight of one of these gloomy cathedrals, suffocating in mortal 
agony, hearing above the tramp of footsteps, the peal of organs, the tri¬ 
umphant surge of chants, and vainly striving to send up its cries under 
all this load,—such, it would seem, was the suffering of this mighty soul. 
The whole pomp and splendour of this gorgeous prison-house was piled 
up on his breast, and his struggles rent the prison for the world! 

'Ona piece of parchment which is here kept framed is inscribed in 
Luther’s handwriting, in Latin, “Death is swallowed up in Victory!” 
Nothing better could be written on the walls of this cell. 

This afternoon I walked out a little to observe the German Sabbath. 
Not like the buoyant, voluble, social Sunday of Paris, though still con¬ 
secrated to leisure and family enjoyment more than to religious exercises. 
As I walked down the streets, the doors were standing open, men 
smoking their pipes, women knitting, and children playing. One place 
of resort was the graveyard of an antiquated church. A graveyard here 
is quite different from the solitary, dismal place where we lay our friends, 
as if to signify that all intercourse with them is at an end. Each grave 
was trimmed and garlanded with flowers, fastened with long strings of 


334 SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

r 

black or white ribbon. Around and among the graves, men, women, 
and children were walking, the men smoking and chatting, not noisily, 
but in a cheerful, earnest way. It seems to me that this way of treating 
the dead might lessen the sense of separation. I believe it is generally 
customary to attend some religious exercise once on Sunday, and after 
that the rest of the day is devoted to this sort of enjoyment. 

The morning we started for Eisenach was foggy and rainy. This was 
uni ortunate, as we were changing from a dead level country to one of 
extreme beauty. The Thuringian Forest, with its high, wooded points 
crowned here and there with many a castle and many a ruin, loomed up 
finely through the mist, and several times I exclaimed, “ There is the 
Wartburg,” or “ That must be the Wartburg,” long before we were near 
it. It was raining hard when we reached Eisenach station, and ngaged 
a carriage to take us to the Wartburg. The mist, which wreathed 
thickly around, showed us only glimpses as we wound slowly up the 
castle hill—enough, however, to pique the imagination, and show how 
beautiful it might be in fair weather. 

The grounds are finely kept: winding paths invite to many a charming 
stroll. When about half way up, as the rain had partially subsided, I 
left the carriage, and toiled up the laborious steep on foot, that I might 
observe better. You approach the castle by a path cut through the 
rock for about thirty or forty feet. At last I stood under a low archway 
of solid stone masonry, about twenty feet thick. There had evidently 
been three successive doors; the outer one was gone, and the two inner 
were wonderfully massive, braced with iron, and having each a smaller 
wicket door swung back on its hinges. 

.As my party were a little behind, I had time to stop and meditate. I 
fancied a dark, misty night, and the tramp of a party of horsemen coming 
up the rocky path to the gateway; the parley at the wicket; the unbarred 
doors, creaking on their rusty hinges,—one, two, three,—are opened; in 
clatters the cavalcade. In the midst of armed men with visors dowrn, a 
monk in cowl and gown, and with that firm look about the lips which is 
so characteristic in Luther’s portraits. But here our party came up, and 
the vision was dispelled. As none of us knew a word of German, we 
stood rather irresolutely looking at the buildings which, in all shapes and 
varieties, surround the court. I went into one room—it was a pantry; 
into another—it was a wash-room; into a third—it was a sitting-room, 
garnished with antlers, and hung round with hard old portraits of princes 
and electors, and occupied by Germans smoking and drinking beer. One 
is sure that in this respect one cannot fail of seeing the place as it was 
in Luther’s time. If they were Germans, of course the’y drank beer out 
of tall, narrow beer-glasses; that is as immutable a fact as the old stones 
of the battlement. 

“ H.,” said C., “ did the Germans use to smoke in Luther’s day?” 

“No. Why?” 

“O, nothing. Only, what could they do with themselves?” 

“I do not know, unless they drank the more beer.” 

“But what could they do with their chimney-hood?” 

So saying, the saucy fellow prowled about promiscuously awhile, as¬ 
sailing one and another in French, to about as much purpose as one 


THE WARTBURG. 335 

might have tried to storm the walls with charges of thistle-down; all 
smoked and drank as before. But as several other visitors arrived, and 
it became evident that if we did not come to see the castle, it was not 
likely we came for anything else, a man was fished up from some depths 
unknown, with a promising bunch of keys. He sallied forth to that part 
of the castle which is undergoing repairs. 

Passing through bricks and mortar, under scaffolds, &c., we came to 
the armoury, full of old knights and steeds in complete armour; that is to 
say, the armour was there, and, without peeping between the crevices, 
one could hardly tell that their owners were not at home in their iron 
houses. There sat the Elector of Saxony, in full armour, on his horse, 
which was likewise cased in steel. There was the suit of armour in which 
Constable Bourbon fell under the walls of Borne, and other celebrated 
suits, some covered with fine engraved work, and some gilded. A 
quantity of banners literally hung in tatters, dropping to pieces with age. 
Here were the middle ages all standing. 

Then we passed up to a grand hall, which is now being restored with 
great taste after the style of that day—a long, lofty room, with an arched 
roof, and a gallery on one side, and beyond, a row of Romanesque arched 
windows, commanding a view of the country around. Having finished 
the tour of this part, we wefit back, ascended an old, rude staircase, and 
were ushered into Luther’s Patmos, about ten or twelve feet square. The 
window looked down the rocky sides into an ocean of seething mist. I 
opened it, but could see nothing of all those scenes he describes so graphi¬ 
cally from this spot. I thought of his playful letter on the “ Diet of the 
Books,” but there was not a rook at hand to illustrate antiquity. There 
was his bedstead and footstool, a mammoth vertebra, and his writing 
table. A sculptured chair, the back of which is carved into a cherub's 
head, bending forward and shadowing with its wings the head of the sitter, 
was said to be of the time of Luther, but not his chair. There were some 
of his books, and a rude, iron-studded clothes press. 

Thus ended for me the Lutheran pilgrimage. I had now been perse- 
veringly to all the shrines, and often inquired of myself whether our con¬ 
ceptions are helped by such visitations. I decided the question in the 
affirmative ; that they are, if from the dust of the present we can recreate 
the past, and bring again before us the forms as they then lived, moved, 
and had their being. For me, I seem to have seen Luther, Cranach, 
Melancthon, and all the rest of them—to have talked with them. By 
the by, I forgot to mention the portraits of Luther’s father and mother, 
which are in his cell. They show that his mother was no common woman. 
She puts me in mind of the mother of Samuel J. Mills—a strong, shrewd, 
bright, New England character. 

I must not forget to notice, too, a little glitter of effect—a little, 
shadowy, fanciful phase of feeling—that came over me when in Luther’s 
cell at Erfurt. The time, as I told you, was golden twilight, and little 
birds were twittering and chirping around the casement, and I thought 
how he might have sat there, in some golden evening, sad and dreamy, 
hearing the birds chirp, and wondering why he alone of all creation 
should be so sad. I have not a doubt he has done that very thing in this 
very spot. 


336 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANt)S. 


JOURNAL— (Continued). 

THE SMOKES DISCOMFITED.—ANTWEHP.—THE CATHEDBAL CHIMES.— TO PAEI8. 

Monday, August 15. From Eisenach, where we dined cozily in the 
railroad station house, we took the cars for Cassel. After we had esta¬ 
blished ourselves comfortably in a nick rauchen car, a gentleman, fol¬ 
lowed by a friend, came to the door with a cigar in his mouth. Seeing 
ladies, he inquired if he could smoke. Comprehending his look and ges¬ 
ture, we said, “No.” But as we spoke very gently, he misunderstood 
us, and entered. Seeing by our looks that something was amiss, he 
repeated the question more emphatically in German : “ Can I smoke ? 
Yes, or No.” “No,” we answered in full chorus. Discomfited, he 
retired with rather a flushed cheek. We saw him prospecting up and 
down the train, hunting fora seat, followed by his Jidus Achates. Finally, 
a guard took him in tow, and after navigating awhile brought him to 
our door; but the gentleman recoiled, said something in German, and 
passed on. Again they made the whole circuit of the train, and then we 
saw the guard coming, with rather a fierce, determined air, straight to 
our door. He opened it very decidedly, and ordered the gentleman to 
enter. He entered, cigar and all. His friend followed. 

“ Well,” said H., in English, “ I suppose he must either smoke or 
die.” 

“ Ah, yes,” I replied, “for the sake of saving his life we will even let 
him smoke.” 

“ Hope the tobacco is good,” added H. ; and we went on reading our 
“ Villette,” which was very amusing just then. The gentleman had his 
match already lighted, and was just in the act of puffing preliminarily 
when H. first spoke. I thought I saw a peculiar expression on his 
friend’s face. He dropped a word or two in German, as if quite inciden¬ 
tally, and I soon observed that the smoking made small progress. He 
kept the cigar in his mouth, it is true, for awhile, just to show he would 
smoke if he chose ; but his whiffs were fewer and fainter every minute ; 
and after reading several chapters, happening to cast my eye that way, 
the cigar had disappeared. Not long after the friend, sitting opposite 
me, addressed W. in good English, and they were soon well agoing in a 
friendly discussion of our route. The winged word had hit the mai’k 
that time. 

We passed the night in an agreeable hotel, Roi de Prusse, at Cassel. 
By the way, it occurred to us that this was where the Hessians came from 
in the old revolutionary times. 

Tuesday, August 16. A long, dull ride from Cassell to Dusseldorf. 

Wednesday, August 17. Whittridge came at breakfast. The same 
mellow, friendly, good-humoured voice, and genial soul, I had loved years 
ago in the heart of Indiana. We had a brief festival of talk about old 
times, art, artists, and friends, and the tide of time rolled in and swept 
us asunder. Success to his pencil in the enchanted glades of Germany! 
America will yet be proud of his landscapes, as Italy of Claude, or Eng¬ 
land of Turner. 


ANTWERP. 337 

Ho for Anvers! (Antwerp.) Through Aix-la-Chapelle, Lidge, Malines, 
till nine at night. 

Thursday, August 18. What gnome’s cave is this Antwerp, where I 
have been hearing such strange harmonies in the air all night ? We drive 
to the cathedral, whose tower reminded Napoleon of Mechlin lace. What 
a shower oi sprinkling music drops comes from the sky above us ! We 
must go up and see about this. We spiralize through a tubular stairway 
to an immense height—a tube of stone, like a Titanic organ pipe, filled 
with waves of sound pouring down like a deluge. Undulations tremen¬ 
dous, yet not intolerable : we soon learned their origin. Reaching a small 
door, I turned aside, and came where the great bell was hung, which 
twenty men were engaged in ringing. It was a fete day. I crept inside 
the frame, and stood actually under the colossal mass, as it swung like a 
world in its spheric chime. A new sense was developed, such as I had 
heard of the deaf possessing. I seemed existing in a new medium. I 
felt the sound in my lungs, in my bones, on all my nerves to the minutest 
fibre, and yet it did not stupefy nor stun me with a harsh clangor. It 
was deep, deep. It was an abyss, gorgeously illuminated of velvet soft¬ 
ness, in which I floated. The sound was fluid like water about me. I 
closed my eyes. Where was I ? Had some prodigious monster swallowed 
me, and, like another Jonah, had I “gone down beneath the bottoms of 
the mountains” ? 1 escaped from that perilous womb of sound, and 
ascended still higher. There was the mystery of that nocturnal min¬ 
strelsy. Seventy-three bells in chromatic diapason—with their tinkling, 
ringing, tolling, kn oiling peal! Was not that a chime ? a chime of chimes ? 
And all these goblin hammers, like hands and feet of sprites, rising and 
falling by magic, by hidden mechanism. 

Of all German cactus blossoms this is the most ethereal. What head 
conceived those harmonies, so ghostlike ? Every ten minutes, if you lie 
wakeful, they wind you up in a net of silver wirework, and swing you in 
the clouds ; and the next time they swing you higher, and the next higher, 
and when the round hour is full the giant bell strikes at the gate of heaven 
to bring you home! 

But this is dreaming Fie, fie ! Let us come down to pictures, masses, 
and common sense. We came down. We entered the room, and sat 
before the Descent from the Cross, where the dead body of Jesus seems 
an actual reality before you. The waves of the high mass came rolling in, 
muffled by intervening walls, columns, corridors, in a low, mysterious 
murmur. Then organ, orchestra, and choir, with rising voices urged the 
mighty acclaim, till the waves seemed beating down the barriers upon us. 
The combined excitement of the chimes, the painting, the music, was too 
much. I seemed to breathe ether. Treading on clouds, as it were, I 
entered the cathedral, and the illusion vanished. 

Friday, August 19. Antwerp to Paris. 

Saturday, August 20. H. and I take up our abode at the house of 
M. Belloc, where we find everything so pleasant, that we sigh to think 
how soon we must leave these dear friends. The rest of our party are at 
the Hotel Bedford. 


Z 


338 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


LETTEE XLYII. 


ANTWERP.—RUBENS. 


Antwerp. 

My Dear:— 

Of all quaint places this is one of the most charming. I have been 
rather troubled that antiquity has fled before me where I have gone. It 
is a fatality of travelling that the sense of novelty dies away, so that we 
do not realize that we are seeing anything extraordinary. I wanted to 
see something as quaint as Nuremberg in Longfellow’s poem, and have 
but just found it. These high-gabled old Flemish houses, nine steps to 
each gable! The cathedral, too, affects me more in externals than any 
yet. And the spire looks as I expected that of Strasbourg would. As 
to the grammarye of bells and chimes, I deliver that over to Charlie. 
But—I have seen Eubens’s painting! Before I came to Europe, Long¬ 
fellow said to me, “ You must go to Antwerp, to see Bubens.” 

“ I do not think I shall like Eubens,” was my reply. 

“But you will, though. Yet never judge till you have been to 
Antwerp.- 

So, during our various meanders, I kept my eye with a steady resolve 
on this place. I confess I went out to see the painting without much 
enthusiasm. My experience with Correggio’s Notte, and some of the 
celebrities of Dresden, was not encouraging. I was weary, too, with 
sight-seeing. I expected to find an old, dim picture, half spoiled by 
cleaning, which I should be required to look into shape, by an exercise 
of my jaded imagination. 

After coming down from hearing the chimes, we went into a side room, 
and sat down before the painting. My first sensation w T as of astonish¬ 
ment—blank, absolute, overwhelming. After all that I had seen, I had 
no idea of a painting like this. I was lifted off my feet, as much as by 
Cologne cathedral, or Niagara Falls, so that I could neither reason nor 
think whether I was pleased or not. It is difficult, even now, to analyze 
the sources of this wonderful power. The excellence of this picture does 
not lie, like Eaphael’s, in a certain ideal spirituality, by which the scene 
is raised above earth to the heavenly sphere; but rather in a power, 
strong, human, almost homely, by which, not an ideal, but the real 
scene is forced home upon the heart. 

Christ is dead ,—dead to your eye as he was to the eye of Mary and of 
John. Death absolute, hopeless, is written in the faded majesty of that 
face, peaceful and weary; death in every relaxed muscle. And, surely, 
in painting this form, some sentiment of reverence and devotion softened 
into awe-struck tenderness that hand commonly so vigorous; for, instead 
of the almost coarse vitality which usually pervades his manly figures, 
there is shed over this a spiritualized refinement, not less, but more than 
human,.as if some heavenly voice whispered, “This is the Lamb slain 
from the foundation of the world!” The figures of the disciples are real 
and individual in expression. The sorrow is homely, earnest, unpictu- 
resque, and grievously heartbroken. The cheek of the kneeling Mary 
at his feet is wet with tears. You cannot ask yourself whether she is 


RUBENS. 


339 


beautiful or not. You only see and sympathize with her sorrow. But 
the apostle John, who receives into his arms the descending form, is the 
most wonderful of all. Painters that I have seen represent him too 
elleminately. They forget the ardent soul whom Jesus rebuked for 
wishing to bring down fire from heaven on bis enemies; they forget that 
it was J ohn who was called the son of thunder, and that his emblem in 
the early church was the eagle. From the spiritualized softness of his 
writings we have formed another picture, forgetting that these are the 
writings of an aged man, in whom the ardour of existence has been 
softened by long experience of suffering, and habits of friendship with a 
Buffering Lord. 

Rubens’s conception of John is that of a vigorous and plenary man¬ 
hood, whose rush is like that of a torrent, in the very moment when his 
great heart is breaking. He had loved his Master with a love like an 
eternity; he had believed him; heart and soul, mind and strength—all 
had he given to that kingdom which he was to set up; and he had seen 
him die—die by lingering torture. And at this moment he feels it all. 
There is no Christ, no kingdom—nothing! All is over. “We trusted 
it had been he who should have redeemed Israel.” With that miraculous, 
lifelike power that only Rubens has, he shows him to us in this moment 
of suppressed agony; the blood choking his heart, the veins swollen, and 
every muscle quivering with the grief to which he will not give way. O, 
for this wonderiul and deep conception, this almost divine insight into 
the mysteries of that hour, one might love Rubens. This picture cannot 
be engraved. No engraving is more than a diagram, to show the places 
of the figures. For, besides its mesmeric life, which no artist can 
reproduce, there is a balancing of colours, a gorgeousness about it, as if 
he had learned colouring from the great Master himself. Even in the over¬ 
powering human effect of this piece, it is impossible not to perceive that 
every difficulty which artists vaunt themselves on vanquishing has in this 
piece been conquered with apparently instinctive ease, simply because it 
was habitual to do so, and without in the least distracting the attention 
from the great moral. Magical foreshortenings and wonderful effects of 
colour appear to be purely incidental to the expression of a great idea. 
I left this painting as one should leave the work of a great religious 
master—thinking more of Jesus and of John than of Rubens. 

After this we went through many galleries and churches devoted to his 
works; for Antwerp is Rubens’s shrine. None of them impressed me as 
compared with this. One of his Madonnas, however, I must not forget 
to describe, it was a conceit so just like him. Instead of the pale, down¬ 
cast, or upturned faces, which form the general types of Madonna, he 
gives her to us, in one painting, as a gorgeous Oriental sultana, leaning- 
over a balcony, with full, dark eye and jewelled turban, and rounded 
outlines, sustaining on her hand a brilliant paroquet. Ludicrous as this 
conception appears in a scriptural point of view, I liked it because there 
was life in it; because he had painted it from an internal sympathy, not 
from a chalky, second-hand tradition. 

And now, farewell to Antwerp. Art has satisfied me at last. I hav 
been conquered, and that is enough. 

To-morrow for Paris. Adieu. 

z 2 


840 


SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS, 


LETTER XLVIII. 

PARIS.—SCHOOL OF DESIGN.—EGYPTIAN AND ASSYRIAN REMAINS.—MRS. S. C. HALL— 
THE PANTHEON.—THE MADELEINE.—NOTRE DAME.—BERANGEE.—FRENCH CHA¬ 
RACTER.—OBSERVANCE OF SUNDAY. 

Paris, Saturday, August 20. 

My Dear :— 

I am seated in my snug little room at M. Belloc’s. The weather is 
overpoweringly hot, but these Parisian houses seem to have seized and 
imprisoned coolness. French household ways are delightful. I like 
their seclusion from the street, by these deep-paved quadrangles. I like 
these cool smootn waxed floors so much, that I one day queried with my 
friends, the C.’s, whether we could not introduce them into America. 
L., who is a Yankee housekeeper, answered, with spirit, “No, indeed, 
not while the mistress of the house has every felling to do, as in America; 
I think I see myself, in addition to all my cares, on my knees, waxing 
up one of these floors.” 

“Ah,” says Caroline, “the thing is managed better in Paris; the 
frotteur comes in before we are up in the morning, shod with great 
brushes, and dances over the floors till they shine.” 

“Iam sure,” said I, “here is Fourrier’s system in one particular. 
We enjoy the floors, and the man enjoys the dancing.” 

Madame Belloc had fitted up my room with the most thoughtful care. 
A large bouquet adorns the table; fancy writing materials are displayed; 
and a waiter, with syrups and an extempore soda fount, one of Parisian 
household refinements, stands just at my elbow. Above all, my walls are 
hung with beautiful engravings from Claude and Zuccarelli. 

This house pertains to the government, and is held by M. Belloc in 
virtue of his situation as director of the Imperial School of Design, to 
which institution about one half of it is devoted. A public examination 
is at hand, in preparing for which M. Belloc is heart and soul engaged. 
This school is a government provision for the gratuitous instruction of 
the working classes in art. I went into the rooms where the works of 
the scholars are arranged for the inspection of the judges. The course of 
instruction is excellent—commencing with the study of nature. Around 
the room various plants are growing, which serve for models, interspersed 
with imitations in drawing or modelling, by the pupils. I noticed a 
hollyhock and thistle, modelled with singular accuracy. As some pupils 
can come only at evening, M. Belloc has prepared a set of casts of plants, 
which he says are plaster daguerreotypes. By pouring warm gelatine 
upon a leaf, a delicate mould is made, from which these casts are taken. 
He showed me bunches of leaves, and branches of the vine, executed by 
them, which were beautiful. In like manner the pupil commences the 
study of the human figure, with the skeleton, which he copies bone by 
bone. Gutta perclia muscles are added in succession, till finally he has 
the whole form. Besides, each student has particular objects given him 
to study for a certain period, after which he copies them from memory. 
The same course is pursued with prints and engravings. 

When an accurate knowledge of forms is gained, the pupil receives 
lessons in combination. Such subjects as these are given: a vase of 





SCnoOL OF DESIGN 1 . 


341 

flowers, a mediaeval or classic vase, shields, helmets, esculcheons, &c., of 
different styles. The first prize composition was a hunting frieze, 
modelled, in which were introduced fanciful combinations of leaf and 
scroll work, dogs, hunters, and children. Figures of almost every animal 
and plant were modelled; the drawings and modellings from memory 
were wonderful, and showed, in their combination, great richness of 
fancy. Scattered about the room were casts of the best classic figures of 
the Louvre, placed there, as M. Belloc gi-acefully remarked, not as 
models, but as inspirations, to cultivate the sense of beauty. 

I was shown, moreover, their books of mathematical studies, which 
looked intricate and learned, but of which I appreciated only the delicate 
chirography. “ And where,” said I, “are these young mechanics 
taught to read and write?” “In the brothers’ schools,” he said. Paris 
is divided into regular parishes, centering round different churches, and 
connected with each church is a parochial school, for boys and girls, 
taught by ecclesiastics and nuns. 

With such thorough training of the sense of beauty, it may be easily 
seen that the facility of French enthusiasm in aesthetics is not, as often 
imagined, superficial pretence. The nerves of beauty are so exquisitely 
tuned and strung that they must thrill at every touch. 

One sees this, in French life, to the very foundation of society. A 
poor family will give, cheerfully, a part of their bread money to buy a 
flower. The idea of artistic symmetry pervades everything, from the 
arrangement of the simplest room to the composition of a picture. At 
the chateau of Madame V. the whiteheaded butler begged madame to 
apologize for the central flower basket on the table. He “ had not had 
time to study the composition.” 

The English and Americans, seeing the French so serious and intent 
on matters of beauty, fancy it to be mere affectation. To be serious on a 
ban-el of flour, or a bushel of potatoes, we can well understand; but to 
be equally earnest in the adorning of a room or the “ composition” of a 
bouquet seems ridiculous. But did not He who made the appetite for 
food make also that for beauty? and while the former will perish with 
the body, is not the latter immortal? With all New England’s earnest¬ 
ness and practical efficiency, there is a long withering of the soul’s more 
ethereal part,—a crushing out of the beautiful,—which is hon-ible. 
Children are born there with a sense of beauty equally delicate with any 
in the world, in whom it dies a lingering death of smothered desire and 
pining, weary starvation. I know, because I have felt it. 

One in whom this sense has long been repressed, in coming into 
Paris, feels a rustling and a waking within him, as if the soul were trying 
to unfold her wings, long unused and mildewed. Instead of scorning, 
then, the lighthearted, mobile, beauty-loving French, would that we 
might exchange instructions with them—imparting our severer discipline 
in religious lore, accepting their thorough methods in art; and, teaching 
and taught, study together under the great Master of all. 

I went with M. Belloc into the gallery of antique sculpture. How 
wonderful these old Greeks! What set them out on such a course, I 
wonder—any more, for instance, than the Sandwich Islands? This 
reminds me to tell you that in the Berlin Museum, which the King of 
Prussia is now finishing in high style, I saw what is said to be the most 


342 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


complete Egyptian collection in the world; a whole Egyptian temple, 
word for word—pillars, paintings, and all; numberless sarcophagi, and 
mummies ad nauseam! They are no more fragrant than the eleven 
thousand virgins, these mummies! and my stomach revolts equally from 
the odour of sanctity and of science. 

I saw there a mummy of a little baby; and though it was black as my 
shoe, and a disgusting dry thing, nevertheless the little head was covered 
with fine, soft, auburn hair. Four thousand years ago, some mother 
thought the poor little thing a beauty. Also I saw mummies of cats, 
crocodiles, the ibis, and all the other religious bijouterie of Egypt, with 
many cases of their domestic utensils, ornaments, &c. 

The whole view impressed me with quite an idea of barbarism ; much 
more so than the Assyrian collection. About the winged bulls there is 
a solemn and imposing grandeur; they have a mountainous and majestic 
nature. These Egyptian things give one an idea of inexpressible un- 
gainliness. They had a clumsy, elephantine character of mind, these 
Egyptians. There was not wanting grace, but they seemed to pick it 
up accidentally; because among all possible forms some must be graceful. 
They had a kind of grand, mammoth civilization, gloomy and goblin. 
They seem to have floundered up out of Nile mud, like that old, slimy, 
pre-Adamite brood, the what’s-their-name— megalosaurus, ichthyosaurus, 
fterodactyle, iguanodon, and other misshapen abominations, with now 
and then wreaths of lotus and water lilies round their tusks. 

The human face, as represented in Assyrian sculptures, is a higher 
type of face than even the Greek: it is noble and princely; the Egyptian 
faces are broad, flat, and clumsy. If Egypt gave birth to Greece, with 
her beautiful arts, then truly this immense, clumsy roc’s egg hatched a 
miraculous nest of loves and graces. 

Among the antiques here, my two favourites are Venus de Milon, 
which I have described to you, and the Diane Chasseresse: this goddess 
is represented by the side of a stag; and so completely is the marble 
made alive, that one seems to perceive that a tread so airy would not 
bend a flower. Every side of the statue is almost equally graceful. 
The small, proud head is thrown back with the freedom of a stag; there 
is a gay, haughty self-reliance, an airy defiance, a rejoicing fulness of 
health and immortal youth in the whole figure. You see before you the 
whole Greek conception of an immortal—a creature full of intellect, full 
of the sparkle and elixir of existence, in whom the principle of life seems 
to be crystallized and concentrated with a dazzling abundance; light, 
airy, incapable alike of love and of sympathy; living for self, and self 
only. Alas for poor souls, who, in the heavy anguish of life, had only 
such goddesses to go to! How far in advance is even the idolatry of 
Christianity! how different the idea of Mary from the Diana! 

Yet, as I walked up and'down among these remains of Greek art, I 
could not but wonder at the spectacle of their civilization: no modern 
development reproduces it, nor ever can or will. It is well to cherish 
and make much of that ethereal past, as a specimen of one phase of 
humanity, for it is past for ever. Those isles of Greece, with their gold 
and purple haze of light and shadow, their exquisite, half-spiritual, half- 
bodily formation—islands where flesh and blood became semi-spiritual, 
and where the sense of beauty was an existence—nave passed as a vision 


THE PANTHEON. 


34 & 

of glory, never to return. One scarcely realizes how full of poetry was 
their mythology; all successive ages have drawn on it for images of 
beauty without exhausting it; and painters and artists, to this day, are 
festered and repressed by vain efforts to reproduce it. But as a religion 
for the soul and the heart, all this is vain and void; all powerless to give 
repose or comfort. One who should seek repose on the bosom of such a 
mythology is as one who seeks to pillow himself on the many-tinted 
clouds of evening; soft and beautiful as they are, there is nothing real to 
them but their dampness and coldness. 

Here M. and Madame Belloc entered, and as he wanted my opinion 
of the Diane, I let her read this part of the letter to him in French. 
You ought to have seen M. Belloc, with tears in his eyes, defending the 
old Greeks, and expounding to me, with all manner of rainbow illustra¬ 
tions, the religious meanings of Greek mythology, and the morale of 
Greek tragedy. Such a whole souled devotion to a nation dead and 
gone could never be found but in France. 

Madame Belloc was the translator of Maria Edgeworth by that lady’s 
desire; corresponded with her for years, and still has many of her letters. 
Her translation of “ Uncle Tom” has to me all the merit and all the 
interest of an original composition. In perusing it I enjoy the pleasure 
of reading the story with scarce any consciousness of its ever having 
been mine. In the evening, Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall called. They 
are admirably matched—he artist, she author. The one writes stories, 
the other illustrates them. Madame M. also called. English by birth, 
she is a true Parisienne, or rather, seems to have both minds, as she 
speaks both languages, perfectly. Her husband being a learned Oriental 
scholar, she, like some other women enjoying similar privileges, has 
picked up a deal of information, which she tosses about in conversation, 
in a gay, piquant manner, much as a kitten plays with a pin ball. 

Madame remembers Mesdames Recamier and De Stael, and told me 
several funny anecdotes of the former. Madame R., she said, was 
always coqueting with her own funeral; conversed with different artists 
on the arrangements of its details, and tempting now one, now another, 
with the brilliant hope of the “composition” of the scene. Madame M. 
offered me her services as cicerone to Paris, and so to-day out we went— 
first to the Pantheon, of which, in her gay and piquant style, she gave 
me the history. 

Begun first in the time of Louis XYI. as a church, in the revolution 
its destination was altered, and it was to be a temple to the manes of 
great men, and accordingly Rousseau, Voltaire, and many more are 
buried here. Well, after the revolution, the Bourbons said it should not 
be a temple for great men, it should be a church. The next popular 
upset tipped it back to the great men again; and it stayed under their 
jurisdiction until Louis Napoleon, who is very pious, restored it to the 
church. It is not possible to say how much further this very charac¬ 
teristic rivalry between /■.eat men and their Creator is going to extend. 
All I have to say is, tLa u I should not think the church much of an ac¬ 
quisition to either party. He that sitteth m the heavens must laugh 
sometimes at what man calls worship. This Pantheon is, as one might 
suppose from its history, a hybrid between a church and a theatre, and 
fcf course good for neither—purposeless and aimless. The Madeleine is 


344 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


another of these hybrid churches, begun by D’lvry as a church, com¬ 
pleted as a temple to Victory by Napoleon, and on second thoughts, re¬ 
dedicated to God. 

After strolling about awhile, the sexton, or some official of the church, 
asked us if we did not want to go down into the vaults below. As a 
large party seemed to be going to do the same, I said, “0 yes, by all 
means; let us see it out.” Our guide, with his cocked hat and lantern, 
walked ahead, apparently in a flow of excellent spirits. These caverns 
and tombs appeared to be his particular forte, and he magnified his office 
in showing them. Down stairs we went, none of us knowing what we 
wanted to see, or why. Our guide steps forth, unlocks the gates of 
Hades, and we enter a dark vault with a particularly earthy smell. 
Bang! he shuts the door after him. Clash! he locks it; now we are in 
for it! and elevating his lantern, he commences a deafening proclama¬ 
tion of some general fact concerning the very unsavoury place in which 
we find ourselves. Of said proclamation I hear only the thundering 
“ Voila ” at the commencement. Next he proceeds to open the doors of 
certain stone vaulted chambers, where the great men are buried, between 
whose claims and their Creator’s there seems to be such an uncertainty 
in France. Well, here they were, sure enough, maintaining their claim 
by right of possession. 

“ Voila le tombeau de Rousseau /” says the guide. All walked in 
piously, and stood to see a wooden tomb painted red. At one end the 
tomb is made in the likeness of little doors, which stand half open, and 
a hand is coming out of them holding a flambeau, by which it is inti¬ 
mated, I suppose, that Rousseau in his grave is enlightening the world. 
After a short proclamation here, we were shown into another stone 
chamber with “ Voila le tombeau de Voltaire!” This was of wood also, 
very nicely speckled and painted to resemble some kind of marble. Each 
corner of the tomb had a tragic mask on it, with that captivating ex¬ 
pression of countenance which belongs to the tragic masks generally. 
There was in the room a marble statue of Voltaire, with that wiry, sharp, 
keen, yet somewhat spiteful expression which his busts commonly have. 

But our guide has finished his prelection here, and is striding off in the 
plenitude of his wisdom. Now we are shown a long set of stone apart¬ 
ments, provided for future great men. Considering the general scarcity 
of the article in most countries, these sleeping accommodations are re¬ 
markably ample. Nobody need be discouraged in his attempts at great¬ 
ness in Paris, for fear at last there wont be room to bury him. After 
this we were marched to a place where our guide made a long speech 
about a stone in the floor—very instructive, doubtless, if I had known 
what it was: my Parisian friend said he spoke with such a German ac¬ 
cent she could not understand; so we humbly took the stone on trust , 
though it looked to the eye of sense quite like any other. 

Then we were marched into a part of the vault celebrated for its echo. 
Our guide here outdid himself; first we were commanded to form a line 
en militaire, with our backs to the wall. Well, we did form en militaire. 

I did it in the innocence of my heart, entirely ignorant of what was to 
come next. Our guide, departing from that heroic grandeur of manner 
which had hitherto distinguished him, suddenly commenced screaming 
and hooting in a most unparalleled style. The echo was enough to deafen 


THE PANTHEON. 


345 


one, to be sure, and the first blast of it made us all jump. I could think 
of nothing but Apollyon amusing himself at the expense of the poor pil¬ 
grims in the valley of the shadow of death; for the exhibition was per¬ 
sisted in with a pertinacity inscrutable to any wisdom except his own. 
It ended by a brace of thumps on the wall, each of which produced a 
report equal to a cannon; and with this salvo of artillery the exhibition 
finished. 

This worthy guide is truly a sublime character. Long may he live to 
show the Pantheon; and when he dies, if so disagreeable an event must 
be contemplated, may he have the whole of one of these stone chambers 
to himself; for nothing less could possibly contain him. He regretted 
exceedingly that we could not go up into the dome ; but I had had enough 
of stair climbing at Strasbourg, Antwerp, and Cologne, and not even the 
prospect of enjoying his instructions could tempt me. 

Now this Pantheon seems to me a monument of the faults and the 
weakness of this very agreeable nation. Its history shows their enthusiasm, 
their hero-worship, and the want of stable religious convictions. No¬ 
where has there been such a want of reverence for the Creator, unless in 
the American Congress. The great men of France have always seemed 
to be in confusion as to whether they made God or he made them. There 
is a great resemblance in some points between the French and the ancient 
Athenians: there was the same excitability; the same keen outward 
life; the same passion for ideas; the same spending of life in hearing or 
telling some new thing; the same acuteness of philosophical research. 
The old Athenians first worshipped, and then banished their great men,—- 
buried them and pulled them up, and did generally a variety of things 
which we Anglo-Saxons should call fantastic. There is this difference, 
that the Athenians had the advantage of coming first. The French 
nation, bom after this development, are exposed by their very similarity 
of conformation, and their consequent sympathy with the old classic style 
of feeling, to become imitators. This betrays itself in their painters and 
sculptors, and it is a constant impulse to a kind of idolatry, which is not 
in keeping with this age, and necessarily seems absurd. When the 
Greeks built altars to Force, Beaiity, Victory, and other abstract ideas, 
they were doing an original thing. When the French do it, they imitate 
the Greeks. Apotheosis and hero-worship in the old times had a fresh¬ 
ness to it; it was one of the picturesque effects of the dim and purple 
shadows of an early dawning, when objects imperfectly seen are magnified 
in their dimensions; but the apotheosis, in modern times, of a man who 
has worn a dress coat, wig, and shoes is quite another affair. 

I do not mean either to say, as some do, that the French mind ha 
very little of the religious element. The very sweetest and softest, as 
well as the most austere and rigid type of piety has been given by the 
French mind; witness Fdndlon and John Calvin—F^n^lon standing as 
the type of the mystic, and Calvin of the rationalistic style of religion. 
F&i£lon, with his heart so sweet, so childlike, so simple and tender, was 
yet essentially French in his nature, and represented one part of French 
mind; and what English devotional writer is at all like him? John 
Newton had his simplicity and lovingness, but wanted that element of 
gracefulness and classic sweetness which gave so high a tone to the 
writings of FeiAlon. As to Calvin, his crystalline clearness of mind, his 


346 


SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREION LANDS. 


calm, cold logic, liis severe vehemence are French, also. To this day, 
a French system of theology is the strongest and most coercive over the 
strongest of countries—Scotland and America ; and yet shallow thinkers 
flippantly say the French are incapable of religious ideas. 

After Madame M. and I had finished the Pantheon we drove to the 
Conciergerie ; for I wanted to see the prison of the hapless Marie Antoi¬ 
nette. That restless architectural mania, which never lets anything alone 
here, is rapidly modernizing it; the scaffoldings are up, and workmen 
busy in making it as little historical as possible. Nevertheless, the old, 
gloomy arched gateway, and the characteristic peaked Norman towers, 
still remain; and we stopped our carriage the other side of the Seine, to 
get a good look at it. We drove to the door, and tried to go in, but 
were told that we could not without an order from somebody or other 
(I forget who); so we were obliged to content ourselves with an outside 
view. 

So we went to take another view of Notre Dame; the very same Notre 
Dame whose bells in the good old days could be rung by the waving of 
Michael Scott’s wand:— 

“ Him listed but his wand to wave 
The bells should ring in Notre Dame.” 

I had been over it once before with Mrs. C., and sitting in a dark 
corner, with my head against a cold, stone pillar, had heard vespers, all 
in the most approved style of the poetic. I went back to it now to see 
how it looked after the cathedrals of Germany. The churches of France 
have suffered dreadfully by the wdiirlwind spirit of its revolutions. At 
different times the painted glass of this church has been shattered, and 
replaced by common, till now there is too much light in it, though there 
are exquisite windows yet remaining. These cathedrals must have painted 
glass; it is essential; the want of it is terrible; the dim, religious light 
is necessary to keep you from seeing the dirty floors, hanging cobwebs, 
stacks of little, old rush-bottomed chairs, and the prints where dirty heads 
and hands have approached too near the stone pillars. As I sat hearing 
vespers in Notre Dame the first time, seeing these all too plainly, may 
I be forgiven, but I could not help thinking of Lucifer’s soliloquy in 
a cathedral in the Golden Legend:— 

** What a darksome and dismal place! 

I wonder that any man has the face 
To call such a hole the house of the Lord 
And the gates of heaven—yet such is the word. 

Ceiling, and walls, and windows old, 

Covered with cobwebs, blackened with mould J 
Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs, 

Dust on the benches, and stalls, and chairs.” 
******* 

However, Notre Dame is a beautiful church; but I wish it was under 
as good care as Cologne Cathedral, and that instead of building Made¬ 
leines and Pantheons, France would restore and preserve her cathedrals 
—those grand memorials of the past. I consider the King of Prussia as 
not only a national benefactor, but the benefactor of the world. Cologne, 
when finished, will be the great epic of architecture, and belong, like all 
grate epics, to all mankind. 


NOTRE DAME, 


347 

Well, Madame M. and I wandered up and down the vast aisles, she 
with her lively, fanciful remarks, to which there was never wanting 
a vein both of shrewdness and good sense. 

When we came out of Notre Dame, she chattered about the place. 
“ There used to be an archbishop’s palace back of the church in that 
garden, but one day the people took it into their heads to pull it down. 
I saw the silk-bottomed chairs floating down the Seine. They say that 
somebody came and told Thiers, ‘ Do you know the people are rummaging 
the archbishop’s palace V and he shrugged his shoulders and said, 4 Let 
’em work.’ That’s the say, you know; mind, I don’t say it is true! 
Well, he got enough of it at last. The fact is, that with the French, 
destructiveness is as much developed as constructiveness, and they are 
as good at one as the other.” 

As we were passing over one of the bridges, we saw a flower market, 
a gay show of flowers of all hues, and a very brisk trade going on about 
them. Madame told me that there was a flower market every day in the 
week, in different parts of the city. The flower trade was more than 
usually animated to-day, because it is a saint’s fete ,—the fete of St. 
Louis, the patron of Paris. 

The streets everywhere showed men, women, and children, carrying 
their pots of blooming flowers. Every person in Paris named Louis or 
Louise, after this saint, has received this day little tokens of affection 
from their friends, generally bouquets or flowers. Madame Belloc is 
named Louise, and her different friends and children called and brought 
flowers, and a beautiful India china vase. 

The life of Paris, indeed of the continent, is floral, to an extent of 
which the people in the United States can form no conception. Flowers 
are a part of all their lives. The churches are dressed with flowers, and 
on fete days are fragrant with them. A jardiniere forms part of the 
furniture of every parlour; a jardiniere is a receptacle made in various 
fanciful forms for holding pots of flowers. These pots are bought at the 
daily flower market for a trifle, in full bloom and high condition ; they 
are placed in the jardiniere, the spaces around them filled with sand and 
covered with moss. 

Again, there are little hanging baskets suspended from the ceiling, and 
filled with flowers. These things give a graceful and festive air to the 
apartments. When the plants are out of bloom, the porter of the house 
takes them, waters, prunes, and tends them, then sells them again : 
meanwhile the parlour is ornamented with fresh ones. Along the streets 
on saints’ days are little booths, where small vases of artificial flowers 
are sold to dress the altars. I stopped to look at one of these stalls, all 
brilliant with cheaply-made, showy vases of flowers, that sell for one or 
two sous. 

We went also to the National Academy of Fine Arts, a government 
school for the gratuitous instruction of artists, a Grecian building, with 
a row of all the distinguished painters in front. 

In the doorway, as we came in, was an antique, headless statue of 
Minerva ; literally it was Minerva’s gown standing up—a pillar of 
llrapery, nothing more, and drapery soiled, tattered, and battered ; but 
then it was an antique, and that is enough. Now, when antique things 
>re ugly, I do not like them any better for being antique, and I should 


348 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


rather have a modern statue than Minerva’s old gown. We went 
through all the galleries in this school, in one of which the prize pieces 
of scholars are placed. Whoever gets one of these prizes is sent tc study 
in Rome at the expense of the government. We passed through the 
hall where the judges sit to decide upon pictures, and through various 
others that I cannot remember. I was particularly interested in the 
apartment devoted to the casts from the statuary in the Louvre, and in 
other palaces. These casts are taken with mathematical exactness, and 
subjected to the inspection of a committee, who order any that are de¬ 
fective to be broken. Proof casts of all the best works, ancient and 
modern, are thus furnished at a small price, and so brought within the 
reach of the most moderate means. 

This morning M. and Madame Belloc took me with them to call on 
Beranger, the poet. He is a charming old man, very animated, with a 
face full of feeling and benevolence, and with that agreeable simplicity 
and vivacity of manner which is peculiarly French. It was eleven 
o’clock, but he had not yet breakfasted; we entreated him to waive cere¬ 
mony, and so his maid brought in his chop and coftee, and we all plunged 
into an animated conversation. Bdranger went on coversing with shrewd¬ 
ness mingled with childlike simplicity—a blending of the comic, the 
earnest, and the complimentary. Conversation in a French circle seems 
to me like the gambols of a thistle down, or the rainbow changes in 
soap bubbles. One laughs with tears in one’s eyes. One moment con¬ 
founded with the absolute childhood of the simplicity, in the next one is 
a little afraid of the keen edge of the shrewdness. This call gave me an 
insight into a French circle which both amused and delighted me. 
Coming home, M. Belloc enlarged upon Bdranger’s benevolence and 
kindness of heart. “No man,” he said, “is more universally popular 
with the common people. He has exerted himself much for the families 
of the unfortunate deportes to Cayenne.” Then he added, laughing, “A 
mechanic, one of my model sitters, was dilating upon his goodness— 
‘ What a man! what sublime virtue ! how is he beloved ! Could I live 
to see his funeral! Quelle spectacle ! Quelle grand emotion /’ ” 

At tea, Madame M. commented on the manners of a certain Englisli 
lady of our acquaintance. 

* ‘ She’s an actress ; she’s too affected.” 

Madame Belloc and I defended her. 

“Ah,” said M. Belloc, “you cannot judge; the French are never 
natural in England, nor the English in France. Frenchmen in England 
are stupid and cross, trying to be dignified : and when the English come 
to France, its all guitar playing and capering in trying to have esprit.” 

But it is hard to give a conversation in which the salient points are 
made by a rapid pantomime, which effervesces like champagne. 

Madame Belloc and Madame M. agree that the old French salon is no 
more; that none in the presen t iron age can give the faintest idea of the 
brilliancy of the institution in its palmiest days. The horrors and 
reverses of successive revolutions have thrown apall over the French heart. 

I have been now, in all, about a month in this gay and flowery city, 
seeing the French people, not in hotels and cafes, but in the seclusion of 
domestic life ; received, when introduced, not with ceremonious distance, 
as a stranger, but with confidence and affection, as a friend. 


FRENCH CHARACTER. 


349 


Though, according to the showing of my friends, Paris is empty of 
many of her most brilliant ornaments, yet I have been so fortunate as to 
make the acquaintance of many noble and justly celebrated people, and 
to feel as if I had gained a real insight into the French heart. 

I liked the English and the Scotch as well as I could like anything. 
And now, I equally like the French. Exact opposites, you will say. 
For that reason all the more charming. The goodness and beauty of the 
divine mind is no less shown in the traits of different races, than of 
different tribes of fruits and flowers. And because things are exact 
opposites, is no reason why we should not like both. The eye is not like 
the hand, nor the ear like the foot; yet who condemns any of them for 
the difference ? So I regard nations as parts of a great common body, 
and national differences as necessary to a common humanity. 

I thought, when in English society, that it was as pez'fect and de¬ 
lightful as it could be. There was worth of character, strength of prin¬ 
ciple, true sincerity, and friendship, charmingly expressed. I have found 
all these, too, among the French, and besides them, something which 
charms me the more, because it is peculiar to the French, and of a kind 
wholly different from any I have ever had an experience of before. There 
is an iris-like variety and versatility of nature, a quickness of catching 
and reflecting the various shades of emotion or fancy, a readiness in 
seizing upon one’s own half-expressed thoughts, and running them out in 
a thousand graceful little tendrils, which is very captivating. 

I know a general prejudice has gone forth, that the French are all 
mere outside, without any deep reflection or emotion. This may be true 
of many. No doubt that the strength cf that outward life, that acute¬ 
ness of the mere perceptive organization, and that tendency to social ex¬ 
hilaration, which prevail, will incline to such a fault in many cases. An 
English reserve inclines to moroseness, and Scotch perseverance to obsti¬ 
nacy ; so this aerial French nature may become levity and insincerity : 
but then it is neither the sullen Englishman, the dogged Scotchman, 
nor the shallow Frenchman that we are to take as the national ideal. In 
each, country we are to take the very best as the specimen. 

Now, it is true that, here in France, one can find people as judicious, 
quiet, discreet, and religious, as anywhere in the world ; with views of 
life as serious, and as earnest, not living for pretence or show, but for 
the most rational and religious ends. Now, when all this goodness is 
silvered over, as it were, reflecting like mother-of-pearl or opal, a thou¬ 
sand fanciful shades and changes, is not the result beautiful ? Some 
families into which I have entered, some persons with whom I have 
talked, have left a most delightful impression upon my mind ; and I have 
talked, by means of imperfect English, French, and interpretations, with 
a good many. They have made my heart bleed over the history of this 
most beautiful country. It is truly mournful that a people with so many 
fine impulses, so much genius, appreciation, and effective power, should, 
by the influence of historical events quite beyond the control of the 
masses, so often have been thrown into a false position before the world, 
and been subjected to such a series of agonizing revulsions and revo¬ 
lutions. 

“O, the French are half tiger, half monkey !” said a cultivated Ame¬ 
rican to me the other day. Such remarks cut me to the heart, as if they 


350 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


had been spoken of a brother. And when they come from the mouth of 
an American, the very shade of Lafayette, it would seem, might rise and 
say, “ Et tu, Brute!” 

It is true, it is a sarcasm of Voltaire’s ; but Voltaire, though born a 
Frenchman, neither embodied nor was capable of understanding the true 
French ideal. The French head he had, but not the French heart. And 
from his bitter judgment we might appeal to a thousand noble names. 
The generous Henri IV., the noble Sully, and Bayard the knight sans 
peur et sans reproche, were these half tiger and half monkey? Were 
John Calvin and F&idlon half tiger and half monkey? Laplace, Geotfroy 
St. Hilaire, Cuvier, Des Cartes, Malebranche, Arago—what were they ? 
The tree of history is enriched with no nobler and fairer boughs and 
blossoms than have grown from the French stock. 

It seems a most mysterious providence that some nations, without 
being wickeder than others, should have a more unfortunate and dis¬ 
astrous history. 

The woes of France have sprung from the fact that a Jezebel de 
Medici succeeded in exterminating from the nation that portion of the 
people co-responding to the Puritans of Scotland, England, and Germany. 
The series of persecutions which culminated in the massacre of St. Bar¬ 
tholomew, and ended with the dragonades under Louis XIV., drained 
France of her life-blood. Other nations have profited by the treasures 
then cast out of her, and she has remained poor for want of them. Some 
of the best blood in America is of the old Huguenot stock. Huguenots 
carried arts and manufactures into England. An expelled French re¬ 
fugee became the theological leader of Puritanism in England, Scotland, 
and America ; and wherever John Calvin’s system of theology has gone, 
civil liberty has gone with it ; so that we might almost say of France, as 
the apostle said of Israel, “ If the fall of them be the riches of the world, 
and the diminishing of them the riches of the Gentiles, how much more 
their fulness !” 

When the English and Americans sneer at the instability, turbulence, 
and convulsions of the French nation for the last century, let us ask our¬ 
selves what our history would have been had the “Gunpowder Plot” 
succeeded, and the whole element of the reformation been exterminated. 
It is true, vitality and reactive energy might have survived such a pro¬ 
cess ; but that vitality would have shown itself just it has in France—in 
struggles and convulsions. The frequent revolutions of France are not a 
thing to be sneered at; they are not evidences of fickleness, but of con¬ 
stancy ; they are, in fact, a prolonged struggle for liberty, in which there 
occur periods of defeat, but in which, after every interval of repose, the 
strife is renewed. Their great difficulty has been, that the destruction 
of the reformed church in France took out of the country entirely that 
element of religious rationalism which is at once conservative and pro¬ 
gressive. 

There are three forces which operate in society: that of blind faith, of 
reverent religious freedom, and of irreverent scepticism. Now, since the 
human mind is so made that it must have religion, when this middle 
element of reasonable religious freedom is withdrawn, society vibrates, 
like a pendulum, between scepticism and superstition; the extreme of 



OBSEKVANCE OE THE SABBATH. 


351 


superstition reacting to scepticism, and then the barrenness of scepticism 
reacting again into superstition. When the persecutions in France had 
succeeded in extinguishing this middle element, then commenced a series 
of oscillations between religious despotism and atheistic licence, which 
have continued ever since. The suppression of all reasonable religious 
inquiry, and the consequent corruption of the church, produced the school 
of Voltaire and his followers. The excesses of that school have made de¬ 
vout Catholics afraid of the very beginning of religious rationalism ; and 
these causes act against each other to this day. 

The revolution in England, under Cromwell, succeeded, because it had 
an open Bible and liberty of conscience for its foundation, and united both 
the elements of faith and reason. The French revolution had, as Lamar¬ 
tine says, Plutarch’s Lives for its Bible, and the great unchaining of 
human passion had no element of religious control. Had France, in the 
time of her revolution, had leaders like Admiral Coligny, her revolution 
might have prospered as did England’s under Cromwell. But these re¬ 
volutions, needlessly terrible as they have been, still have accomplished 
something ; without them France might have died away into what Spain 
is. As it is, progress has been made, though at a fearful sacrifice. No 
country has been swept cleaner of aristocratic institutions, and the old 
bastiles and prisons of a past tyranny. The aspiration for democratic 
freedom has been so thoroughly sown in France, that it will never be 
rooted up again. How to get at it, and how to keep it when it is got, 
they do not yet clearly see ; but they will never rest till they learn. 
There is a liberty of thought and of speech in France which the tongue- 
tied state of the press cannot indicate. Could France receive the Bible 
—could it be put into the hands of all the common people —that might 
help her. And France is receiving the Bible. Spite of all efforts to the 
contrary, the curiosity of the popular mind has been awakened ; the 
yearnings of the popular heart are turning towards it; and therein lie 
my best hopes for France. 

One thing more I would say. Since I have been here, I have made 
the French and continental mode of keeping Sunday a matter of calm, 
dispassionate inquiry and observation. I have tried to divest myself of 
the prejudices—if you so please to call them—of my New England edu¬ 
cation—to look at the matter sympathetically, in the French or conti¬ 
nental point of view, and see whether I have any occasion to revise the 
opinions in which I had been educated. I fully appreciate all the agree¬ 
ableness, the joyousness, and vivacity of a day of recreation and social 
freedom, spent in visiting pictuz’e galleries and public grounds, in social 
reunions and rural excui'sions. I am far from judging harshly of the 
piety of those who have been educated in these views and practices. 
But, viewing the subject merely in relation to things of this life, I am 
met by one very striking fact: there is not a single nation, possessed of 
a popular form of government, which has not our Puritan theory of the 
Sabbath. Protestant Switzerland, England, Scotland, and America 
cover the whole ground of popular freedom; and in all these this idea of 
the Sabbath prevails with a distinctness about equal to the degree of 
liberty. Nor do I think this result an accidental one. If we notice that 
the Lutheran branch of the reformation did not have this element, and 


352 SUNNY MEJSOBlS&i OP FOREIGN LANDS. 

the Calvinistic branch, wliich spread over England and America, did 
have it, and compare the influence of these two in sustaining popular 
rights, we shall be struck with the obvious inference. 

Now, there are things in our mode of keeping the Sabbath which have 
a direct tendency to sustain popular government; for the very elemen 
of a popular government must be self-control in the individual. There 
must be enough intensity of individual self-control to make up for the 
lack of an extraneous pressure from government. The idea of the 
Sabbath, as observed by the Puritans, is the voluntary dissevering of the 
thoughts and associations from the things of earth for one day in seven, 
and the concentrating of the mind on purely spiritual subjects. In all 
this there is a weekly recurring necessity for the greatest self-control. 
No way could be devised to educate a community to be thoughtful and 
reflective better than the weekly recurrence of a day when all stimulus, 
both of business and diversion, shall be withdrawn, and the mind turned 
in upon itself. The weekly necessity of bringing all business to a close 
tencLdo give habits of system and exactness. The assembling together 
for divine worship, and for instruction in the duties of Christianity, is a 
training of the highest and noblest energies of the soul. Even that style 
of abstract theologizing prevailing in New England and Scotland, which 
has grown out of Sabbath sermonizing, has been an incalculable addition 
to the strength and self-controlling power of the people. 

Hide through France, you see the labourer in his wooden shoes, with 
scai’ce a thought beyond his daily toil. His Sunday is a fete for dancing 
and recreation. Go through New England, and you will find the 
labourer, as he lays his stone fence, discussing the consistency of fore¬ 
ordination with free will, or perchance settling some more practical 
mooted point in politics. On Sunday this labourer gets up his waggon, 
and takes his wife and family to church, to hear two or three sermons, 
in each of which there are more elements of mental discipline than a 
French peasant gets in a whole lifetime. It is a shallow view of theolo¬ 
gical training to ask of what practical use are its metaphysical problems. 
Of what practical value to most students is geometry ? On the whole, I 
think it is the Puritan idea of the Sabbath, as it prevails in New Eng¬ 
land, that is one great source of that individual strength and self-control 
which have supported so far our democratic institutions. 

In regard to the present state of affairs here, it has been my lot to 
converse unreservedly with some of all parties sufficiently to find the key¬ 
note of their thoughts. There are, first, the Bourbonists—mediaeval 
people—believers in the divine right of kings in general, and of the Bour¬ 
bons in particular. There are many of them exceedingly interesting. 
There is something rather poetic and graceful about the antique cast of 
their ideas; their chivalrous loyalty to an exiled family, and their devout 
belief of the Catholic religion. These, for the most part, keep out of 
Paris, entirely ignore the present court, and remain in their chateaus in 
the country. A gentleman of this class, with whom I talked, thought 
the present emperor did very well in keeping other parties out till the 
time should come to strike a blow for the true kina'. 

Then there are the partisans and friends of the Orleans family. I 
heard those who spoke, even with tears, of Louis Philippe and his 
dynasty. Thqy were patrons of letters and of arts, they say, of virtue 



FRENCH CHARACTERISTICS. 353 

and of religion* and these good, faithful souls cling lovingly to their 
fnemory. 

And then there are the republicans—men of the real olden time, 
capable of sacrificing everything that heart holds dear for a principle; 
Such republicans as were our fathers, in all save their religion, and be¬ 
cause lacking that, losing the chief element of popular control. Never¬ 
theless, grander men have never been than some of those modern repub¬ 
licans of France; Americans might learn many lessons from them. 

Besides all these there is another class, comparatively small, having 
neither the prestige of fashion, rank, nor wealth, but true, humble, evan¬ 
gelical Christians, in whom the simplicity and spirituality of the old 
Huguenot church seem revived. These men are labouring at the very 
foundation of things; labouring to bring back the forgotten Bible; be¬ 
ginning where Christ began, with preaching the gospel to the poor. If 
any would wish to see Christianity in its loveliest form, they would find 
it in some of these humble labourers. One, with whom I conversed, 
devotes his time to the chiffoniers (rag pickers). He gave me an a '.ouni 
ef his labours, speaking with such tenderness and compassion, that it was 
quite touching. “ My poor people,” he said, “ they are very ignorant, 
but they are not so very bad.” And when I asked him, “ Who supports 
you in your labours ?” he looked upward, with one of those quick, invo¬ 
luntary glances by which the French express themselves without words. 
There was the same earnestness in him as in one of our city missionaries, 
but a touching grace peculiarly national. It was the piety of F^n^lon 
and St. John. And I cannot believe that God, who loves all nations 
alike, and who knows how beautifully the French mind is capable of re¬ 
flecting the image of Jesus, will not shine forth upon France, to give the 
light of the knowledge of his glory in the face of Christ. 

It was the testimony of all with whom I conversed, that the national 
mind had become more and more serious for many years past. Said a 
French gentleman to me one evening, “ The old idea of Vhomme cVesprit 
of Louis XIV.’s time, the man of bon-mots, bows, and salons, is almost 
passed away; there is only now and then a specimen of it left. The 
French are becoming more earnest and more religious.” In the Roman 
Catholic churches which I attended, I saw very full audiences, and great 
earnestness and solemnity. I have talked intimately, also, with 
Roman Catholics, in whom I felt that religion was a real and vital 
thing. One of them, a most lovely lady, presented me with the Imita¬ 
tion of Christ, by Thomas h Kempis, as a ground on which we could 
both unite. 

I have also been interested to see in these French Catholics, in its 
most fervent form, the exhibition of that antislavery spirit which, in 
other ages, was the boast of that church. One charming friend took 
me to the church of St. Germain l’Auxerrois, pointing out with great 
interest the statues and pictures of saints who had been distinguished 
for their antislavery efforts in France. In a note expressing her warm 
interest in the cause of the African slave, she says, “It is a tradition of 
our church, that of the three kings which came to worship Jesus in 
Bethlehem, one was black ; and if Christians would kneel oftener before 
the manger of Bethlehem they would think less of distinctions of caste 
and colour.” 

A A 



SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


354 

Madame Belloc received, a day or two since, a letter from a lady in the 
old town of Orleans, which gave name to Joan of Arc, expressing the 
most earnest enthusiasm in the antislavery cause. Her prayers, she 
says, will ascend night and day for those brave souls in America who 
are conflicting with this mighty injustice. 

A lady a few days since called on me, all whose property was lost in 
the insurrection at Hayti, but who is, nevertheless, a most earnest advo¬ 
cate of emancipation. 

A Catholic lady, in a letter, inquired earnestly, why in my Key I had 
not included the Romish clergy of the United States among the friends 
of emancipation, as that, she said, had been always the boast of their 
church. 1 am sorry to be obliged to make the reply, that in America 
the Catholic clergy have never identified themselves with the antislavery 
cause, but in their influence have gone with the multitude. 

I have received numerous calls from members of the Old French 
Abolition Society, which existed here for many years. Among these X 

met, with great interest, M. Butrone, its president; also M. -, who 

presented me with his very able ethnological work on the distinctive 
type of the negro race. One gentleman, greatly distressed in view of 
the sufierings of the negro race in America, said, naively enough, to 
Mrs. C., that he had heard that the negroes had great capability for 
music, dancing, and the fine arts, and inquired whether something could 
not be done to move sympathy in their behalf by training them to ex¬ 
hibit characteristic^ dances and pantomimes. Mrs. C. quoted to him 
the action of one of the great ecclesiastical bodies in America, in the 
same breath declining to condemn slavery, but denouncing dancing as 
go wholly of the world lying in wickedness as to require condign eccle¬ 
siastical censure. The poor man was wholly lost in amazement. 

In this connexion, I cannot but notice, to the credit of the French 
republican provisional government, how much more consistent they were 
in their attachment to the principles of liberty than ever our own has 
been. What do we see in our own history ? Our northern free states 
denouncing slavery as a crime, conmssedly inconsistent with their civil 
and religious principles, yet, for cofnmercial and pecuniary considera¬ 
tions, deliberately entering into a compact with slaveholders tolerating a 
twenty years’ perpetuation of the African slave trade, the rendition of 
fugitives, the suppression ot servile insurrections, and allowing to the 
slaveholders a virtual property basis of representation. It should qua¬ 
lify the contempt which some Americans express of the French republic, 
that when the subject of the slave colonies was brought up, and it was 
seen that consistency demanded immediate emancipation, they imme¬ 
diately emancipated ; and not only so, but conferred at once on the 
slaves the elective franchise. 

This point strongly illustrates the difference, in one respect, between 
the French and the Anglo-Saxons. As a race the French are less com¬ 
mercial, more ideal, more capable of devotion to abstract principles, and 
of following them out consistently, irrespective of expediency. 

There is one thing which cannot but make one indignant here in Paris, 
and which, I think, is keenly felt by some of the best among the French ; 
and that is, the indifference of many Americans, while here, to their own 



AMERICANS IN PARIS. 


355 


national principles of liberty. They seein to come to Paris merely to be 
hangers-on and applauders in the train of that tyrant who has overthrown 
the hopes of France. To all that cruelty and injustice by which 
thousands of hearts are now bleeding, they appear entirely insensible. 
They speak with heartless levity of the revolutions of France, as of a 
pantomime got up for their diversion. Their time and thoughts seem to 
be divided between defences of American slavery and efforts to attach 
themselves to the skirts of French tyranny. They are the parasites of 
parasites—delighted if they can but get to an imperial ball, and beside 
themselves if they can secure an introduction to the man who figured as 
a roue in the streets of New York. Noble-minded men of all parties 
here, who have sacrificed all for principle, listen with suppressed indig¬ 
nation, while young America, fresh from the theatres and gambling 
saloons, declares, between the whiffs of his cigar, that the French are not 
capable of free institutions, and that the government of Louis Napoleon 
is the best thing France could have. Thus from the plague-spot at her 
heart has America become the propagandist of despotism in Europe. 
Nothing weighs so fearfully against the cause of the people of Europe 
as this kind of American influence. Through almost every city of 
Europe are men whose great glory it appears to be to proclaim that they 
worship the beast, and wear his name in their foreheads. I have seen 
sometimes, in the forests, a vigorous young sapling which had sprung up 
from the roots of an old, decaying tree. So, unless the course of things 
alters much in America, a purer civil liberty will spring up from her root? 
in Europe, while her national tree is blasted with despotism. It is moa 
affecting, in moving through French circles, to see what sadness, what 
anguish of heart, lies under that surface which seems to a stranger so 
gay. Each revolution has cut its Avay through thousands of families, 
ruining fortunes, severing domestic ties, inflicting wounds that bleed, 
and will bleed for years. I once alluded rather gaily to the numerous 
upsets of the French government, in conversation with a lady, and she 
laughed at first, but in a moment her eyes filled with tears, and she said, 
“ Ah, you have no idea what these things are among us.” In conver¬ 
sation nothing was more common than the remark, “ I shall do so and 
so, provided things hold out; but then there is no telling what will come 
next.” 

On the minds of some there lie deep dejection and discouragement. 
Some, surrounded by their growing families, though they abhor the 
tyranny of the government, acquiesce wearily, and even dread change 
lest something worse should arise. 

We know not in America how many atrocities and cruelties that 
| attended the coup d'etat have been buried in the grave whiclr entombed 
the liberty of the press. I have talked with eye-witnesses of those scenes, 
men who have been in the prisons, and heard the work of butchery going 
on in the prison yards in the night. While we have been here, a gentle¬ 
man to whom I had been introduced was arrested, taken from bed by 
the police, and carried off, without knowing of what he was accused. 
His friends were denied access to him, and on making application to the 
1 authorities, the invariable reply was, “ Be very quiet about it. If you 
make a commotion, his doom is sealed.” When his wife was begging 

A A 2 






350 


SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 


permission for a sliort interview, the jailer, wearied with her impor¬ 
tunities, at last exclaimed unguardedly, “ Madam, there are two hundred 
here in the same position; what would you have me do?”* 

At that very time an American traveller, calling on us, expatiated at 
length on the peaceful state of things in Paris—on the evident tran¬ 
quillity and satisfaction universally manifest. 


JOUEN AL — (Continued). 

SEASICKNESS ON THE CHANNEL. 

Saturday, August 27. Left Paris with H., the rest of our party having 
been detained. Reached Boulogne in safety, and in high spirits made 
our way on board the steamer, deposited our traps below, came on deck, 
and prepared for the ordeal. A high north-wester had been blowing all 
day, and as we ran along behind the breakwater, I could see over it the 
white and green waves fiendishly running, and showing their malign eyes 
sparkling with hungry expectation. ‘ ‘ Come out, come out!” they seemed 
to say; “ come out, you little black imp of a steamer; don’t be hiding 
behind there, like a coward. We dare you to come out here and give 
us a chance at you—we will eat you up, as so many bears would eat 
up a lamb.” 

And sure enough, the moment her bows passed beyond the pier, the 
sea struck her, and tossed her like an eggshell, and the deck, from stem to 
stern, was drenched in a moment, and running with floods as if she had 
hero under writer. Bor a few moments H. and I both enjoyed the 
motion. We stood amidships, she in her shawl, I in a great tarpauling 
which I had borrowed of Jack, and every pitch sent the spray over us. 
We exulted that we were not going to be sick. Suddenly, however, s 
suddenly that it was quite mysterious, conscience smote me. A profound, 
a deep-seated remorse developed itself just exactly in the deepest centre 
of the pit of my stomach. 

“ H.,” said I, with a decided, grave air, “I’m going to be seasick.” 

“So am I,” said she, as if struck by the same convictions that had 
been impressed on me. We turned, and made our way along the lee¬ 
ward quarter, to a seat by the bulwarks. I stood holding on by the 
i ailrope, and every now and then addressing a few incoherent and rather 
guttural, not to say pectoral, remarks to the green and gloomy sea as I 
leaned over the rail. After every paroxysm of communicativeness (for 
in seasickness the organ of secretiveness gives way), I regained my per¬ 
pendicular, and faced the foe, with a determination that I would stand 
it through—that the grinning, howling brine should get no more secrets 
out of me. And, in fact, it did not. 

Meanwhile, what horrors—what complicated horrors—did not that 
trowded deck present! Did the priestly miscreants of the middle ages 
ever represent among the torments of purgatory the deck of a channel 
steamer? If not, then they forgot the “lower deep,” that Satan doubt¬ 
less thought about, according to Milton. 

* That man has remained i.t prison to this day. 
















SEA-SICKNESS IN TIIE CHANNEL. 


357 


There were men and women of every age and complexion, with lace? 
of every possible shade of expression. Defiance, resolute and stern, 
desperate resolves never to give in, and that very same defiant deter¬ 
mination sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought. A deep abyss ol 
abdominal discontent, revealing alar the shadow, the penumbra, of the 
approaching retch. And there were bouleversements, and hoarse confi¬ 
dences to the sea of every degree ol misery. The wind was really risen 
quite to a gale, and the sea ran with fearful power. Two sailors, 
Btanding near, said, “I wouldn’t say it only to you, Jack, but in all the 
time I’ve crossed this here channel. I’ve seen nothin’ like this.” 

“Nor I neither,” was the reply. 

About mid channel a wave struck the windward quarter, just behind 
the wheel, with a stroke like a rock from a ballista, smashed in the bul¬ 
warks, stove the boat, which fell and hung in the water by one end, and 
cent the ladies, who were sitting there with boxes, baskets, shawls, hats, 
spectacles, umbrellas, cloaks, down to leeward, in a pond of water. One 
girl I saw with a bruise on her forehead as large as an egg, and the blood 
streaming from her nostrils. Shrieks resounded, and for a few moments, 
we had quite a tragic time. 

About this time H. gave in, and descended to Tartarus, where the 
floor was compactly, densely stowed with one mass of heaving wretches, 
with nothing but washbowls to relieve the sombre mosaic. How H. 
fared there she may tell; I cannot. I stood by the bulwarks with my 
boots full of water, my eyes full of salt spray, and my heart full of the 
most poignant regret that ever I was born. Alas! was that channel a 
channel at all? Had it two shores ? Was England over there, where I 
saw nothing but monstrous, leaping, maddening billows, saying, “We 
are glad of it; we want you ; come on here; we are waiting for you; we 
will serve you up”? 

At last I seriously began to think of Tartarus myself, and of a calm 
repose flat on my back, such as H. told of in his memorable passage. 
But just then, dim and faint on the horizon, I thought I discerned the 
long line of a bank of land. It was. This was a channel: that was the 
shore. England had not sunk. I stood my ground; and in an hour we 
came running, bounding, and rolling towards the narrow mouth of the 
Eolkstone pier heads. 


LETTER XLIX. 


YORK.—CASTLE HOWARD.—LEEDS.—FOUNTAINS ABBEY.—LIVERPOOL.—IRISH 

DEPUTATION.—DEPARTURE. 


London. 


My Dear :— 


Our last letters from home changed all our plans. We concluded to 
hurry away by the next steamer, if at that late hour we could get pas¬ 
sage. We were all in a bustle. The last shoppings for aunts, cousins, 
and little folks were to be done by us all. The Palais Royal was to be 
rummaged ; bronzes, vases, statuettes, bonbons, playthings—all that the 
endless fertility of France could show—was to be looked over for the 
“ folks at home.” 



35& SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS. 

You ought to have seen our rooms at night, the last evening we spent 
in Paris. When the whole gleanings of a continental tour were brought 
forth for packing, and compared with the dimensions of original trunks 
—ah, what an hour was that! Who should reconcile these incongruous 
elements—bronzes, bonnets, ribbons and flowers, plaster casts, books, 
muslins and laces—elements as irreconcilable as fate and freedom ; who 
should harmonize them ? And I so tired ! 

“ Ah,” said Madame B., “it is all quite easy; you must have a 
packer.” 

“ A packer?” 

“ Yes. He will come, look at your things, provide whatever may be 
necessary, and pack them all.” 

So said, so done. The man came, saw, conquered; he brought a 
trunk, twine, tacks, wrapping paper, and I stood by in admiration while 
he folded dresses, arranged bonnets, caressingly enveloped flowers in silk 
paper, fastened refractory bronzes, and muffled my plaster animals with 
reference to the critical points of ears and noses,—in short, reduced the 
whole heterogeneous assortment to place and proportion, shut, locked, 
corded, labelled, handed me the keys, and it was done. The charge for 
all this was quite moderate. 

How we sped across the Channel C. relates. We are spending a few 
very pleasant days with our kind friends, the L.’s, in London. 

Ox Board the Arctic, Wednesday, September 7. 

On Thursday, September 1, we reached York, and visited the beau¬ 
tiful ruins of St. Mary’s Abbey, and the magnificent cathedral. How 
individual is every cathedral! York is not like Westminster, nor like 
Strasbourg, nor Cologne, any more than Shakspeare is like Milton, or 
Milton like Homer. In London I attended morning service in West¬ 
minster, and explored its labyrinths of historic memories. The reading 
of the Scriptures in the English tongue, and the sound of the chant, 
affected me deeply, in contrast with the pictorial and dramatic effects of 
[Romanism in continental churches. 

As a simple matter of taste, Protestantism has made these buildings 
more impressive by reducing them to a stricter unity. The multitude 
of shrines, candlesticks, pictures, statues, and votive offerings, which 
make the continental churches resemble museums, are constantly at 
variance with the majestic grandeur of the general impression. Therein 
they typify the church to which they belong, which has indeed the grand 
historic basis and framework of Christianity, though overlaid with ex¬ 
traneous and irrelevant additions. 

This cathedral of York has a-severe grandeur peculiar to itself. I saw 
it with a deep undertone of feeling; for it was the last I should behold. 

No one who has appreciated the wonders of a new world of art and 
association can see, without emotion, the door closing upon it, perhaps 
for ever. I lingered long here, and often turned to gaze again; and 
after going out, went back, once more, to fill my soul with a last, long 
look, in which I bade adieu to all the historic memories of the old world. 
I thought of the words, “We have a building of God, a house not made 
with hands, eternal in the heavens.” 

These glorious arches, this sublime history of human power and skill, 



CASTLE HOWARD. $59 

is only a shadow of some eternal substance, which, in the ages to come, 
God will yet reveal to us. 

It rained with indexible pertinacity during all the time we were at 
York; and the next day it rained still, when {39 took the cars tor Ca3tle 
Howard station. 

In riding through the park from the station, we admired an avenue 
composed of groups of magnificent beeches, sixteen or eighteen in 
group, disposed at intervals on either hand. 

The castle, a building in the Italian style, rose majestically on a slight 
eminence in the centre of a green lawn. We alighted in the crisis of one 
of the most driving gusts of wind and rain, so that we really seemed to 
be fleeing for shelter. But within all was bright and warm. 

Lady Carlisle welcomed us most affectionately, and we learned that, 
bad we not been so reserved at the York station in concealing our names, 
we should have received a note from her. However, as we were safely 
arrived, it was of no consequence. 

vSeveral of the family were there, among the rest Lady Dover and Mr. 
and Mrs. E. Howard. They urged us to remain over night; but as we 
bad written to Leeds that we should be there in the evening train, we 
were obliged to decline. We were shown over the castle, which is rich 
in works of art. There was a gallery of antiques, and a collection of 
paintings from old masters. In one room I saw tapestry exactly like 
that which so much interested us in Windsor, representing scenes from 
the Book of Esther. It seemed to be of a much more ancient date. I 
was also interested in a portrait of an ancestor of the family, the identical 
“Belted Will” who figures in Scott’s lay. 

“ Belted Will Howard shall come with speed, 

And William of Dcloraine, good at need.” 

In one of the long corridors we were traversing, we heard the voice of 
merriment, and luund a gay party of young people and children amusing 
themselves at games. I thought what a grand hide-and-go-seek place 
the castle must be—whole companies might lose themselves among the 
rooms. The central hall of the building goes up to the roof, and is sur¬ 
mounted by a dome. The architecture is in the Italian style, which I 
think much more suited to the purposes of ordinary life than for strictly 
religious uses. I never saw a church in that style that produced a very 
deep impression on me. This hall was gorgeously frescoed by Italian 
masters. The door commands the view of a magnificent sweep of green 
lawn, embellished by an artificial lake. It is singular in how fine and 
subtile a way different nationalities express themselves in landscape gar¬ 
dening, while employing the same materials. I have seen no grounds 
on the Continent that express the particular shade of ideas which charac¬ 
terize the English. There is an air of grave majesty about the wide 
sweep of their outlines—a quality suggestive of ideas of strength and 
endurance which is appropriate to their nationality. 

In Lord Carlisle’s own room we saw pictures of Sumner, Prescott, and 
others of his American friends. This custom of showing houses, which 
prevails over Europe, is, I think, a thing which must conduce greatly to 
national improvement. A plea for the beautiful is constantly put in by 


SCO 


SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


them—a model held up before the community, whose influence cannotbg 
too highly estimated. Before one of the choicest paintings stood the 
easel of some neighbouring artist, who was making a copy. He was 
quite unknown to the family, but comes and goes at his pleasure, the 
picture being as freely at his service as if it were an outside landscape. 

After finishing our survey, 1 went with Lady Carlisle into her own 
boudoir. There I saw a cabinet full-length picture of her mother, the 
Duchess of Devonshire. She is represented with light hair, and seemed 
to have been one whose beauty was less that of regular classic model, than 
the fascination of a brilliant and buoyant spirit inspiring a graceful form. 
Lady Carlisle showed me an album, containing a kind of poetical record 
made by her during a passage through the Alps, which she crossed on 
horseback, in days when such an exploit was more difficult and dangerous 
than at present. I particularly appreciated some lines in closing, ad¬ 
dressed to her children, expressing the eagerness with which she turned 
f.om all that nature and art could offer, in prospect of meeting them once 
more. 

Lord Carlisle is still in Turkey, and will, probably, spend the winter 
in Greece. His mother had lust received a letter nom him, and he thinks 
that war is inevitable. 

In one of the rooms that we traversed I saw an immense vase of bog 
oak and gold, which was presented to Lord Carlisle by those who 
favoured his election on the occasion of his defeat on the corn-law ques¬ 
tion. The sentiment expressed by the givers was, that a defeat in a 
noble undertaking was worthy of more honour than a victory in an 
ignoble one. 

After lunch, having waited in vain for the rain to cease, and give us a 
sunny interval in which to visit the grounds, we sallied out hooded and 
cloaked, to get at some of the most accessible points of view. The wind 
was unkindly and discourteous enough, and seemed bent on baffling the 
hospitable intentions of our friends. If the beauties of an English land¬ 
scape were set off by our clear sky and sun, then patriotism, I fancy, 
would run into extravagance. I could see that even one gracious sun¬ 
set smile might produce in these lawns and groves an effect of enchant¬ 
ment. 

I was pleased with what is called the “ kitchen garden,” which I 
expected to find a mere collection of vegetables, but found to be a 
genuine old-fashioned garden, which, like Eden, brought forth all that 
was pleasant to the eye and good for food. 

There were wide walks bordered with flowers, enclosing portions 
devoted to fruit and vegetables, and, best of all this windy day, the 
whole enclosed by a high, solid stone wall, which bade defiance to the 
storm, and made this the most agreeable portion of our walk. 

Our friends spoke much of Sumner and Prescott, who had visited 
there; also of Mr. Lawrence, our former ambassador, who had visited 
them just before his return. 

After a. very pleasant day we left, with regret, the warmth of this 
hospitable circle, thus breaking one more of the links that bind us to the 
English shore. 

Nine o’clock in the evening found us sitting by a cheerful fire in the 
parlour of Mr. E. Baines, at Leeds. The father of our host was one of 













FOUNTAINS ABBEY. 


361 


the most energetic parliamentary advocates of the repeal of the corn laws. 
Mr. B. spoke warmly of Lord Carlisle, and gave me the whole intei'esting 
history of the campaign which the vase at Castle Howard commemorated, 
and read me the speech of Lord C. on that occasion. 

It has occurred to me, that the superior stability of the English 
aristocracy, as compared with that of other countries, might be traced, 
in part, to their relations with the representative branch of the govern¬ 
ment. The eldest son and heir is generally returned to the House of 
Commons by the vote of the people, before he is called to take his seat 
in the House of Peers. Thus the same ties bind them to the people 
which bind our own representatives—a peculiarity which, I believe, never 
existed permanently with the nobles in any other country. By this 
means the nobility, when they enter the House of Lords, are better 
adapted to legislate wisely for the interests, not of a class, but of the 
whole people. 

The next day the house was filled with company, and the Leeds offering 
was presented, the account of which you will see in the papers. Every¬ 
thing was arranged with the greatest consideration. I saw many in¬ 
teresting people, and was delighted with the strong, religious interest in 
the cause of liberty, pervading all hearts. Truly it may be said, that 
Wilberforce and Clarkson lighted a candle which will never go out in 
England. 

Monday we spent in a delightful visit to Fountains Abbey ; less rich 
in carvings than Melrose, but wider in extent, and of a peculiar architec¬ 
tural beauty. We lunched in what was the side gallery of the refectory, 
where some drowsy old brother used to read the lives of saints to the 
monks eating below. We walked over wie graves of abbots, and through 
the scriptorium, which reminded me of the exquisite scene in the Golden 
Legend, of the old monk in the scriptorium busily illuminating a 
manuscript. 

In the course of the afternoon a telegraph came from the mayor of 
Liverpool, to inquire if our party would accept a public breakfast at the 
town hall before sailing, as a demonstration of sympathy with the cause of 
freedom. Remembering the time when Clarkson began his career, amid 
such opposition in Liverpool, we could not but regard such an evidence 
of its present public sentiment as full of encouragement, although the 
state of my health and engagements rendered it necessary for me to 
decline. 

Tuesday we parted from our excellent friends in Leeds, and soon 
found ourselves once more in the beautiful Dingle; our first and our last 
resting-place on English shores. 

Sad letters from home met us there; yet not sad, since they only told 
us of friends admitted before us to that mystery of glory for which we 
are longing—of which all that we have seen in art or nature are but dim 
suggestions and images. 

A deputation from Ireland here met me, presenting a beautiful bog 
oak casket, lined with gold, and carved with appropriate national symbols, 
containing an offering for the cause of the oppressed. They read a beau¬ 
tiful address, and touched upon the importance of inspiring with the 
principles of emancipation the Irish nation, whose influence in our land 
is becoming so great. Had time and sti'ength permitted, it had been 


362 


SUNNY MEMORIES OP FOREIGN LANDS. 


my purpose to visit Ireland, to revisit Scotland, and to see more of Eng¬ 
land. But it is not in man that walketli to direct his steps. 

And now came parting, leave taking, last letters, notes, and mes¬ 
sages. 

The mayor of Liverpool and the Rev. Dr. Raffles breakfasted with us, 
and after breakfast Dr. R. commended us in prayer to God. Could we 
feel in this parting that we were leaving those whom we had known for 
so brief a space? Never have I so truly felt the unity of the Christian 
church, that oneness of the great family in heaven and on earth, as in the 
experience of this journey. A large party accompanied us to the wharf, 
and went with us on board the tender. The shores were lined with 
sympathizing friends, who waved their adieus to us as we parted. And 
thus, almost sadly as a child might leave its home, I left the shores of 
kind, strong Old England—the mother of us all. 




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Forms a most appropriate present for a young lady.” 


Zenobia, 

Jane de Montfort, 
Margaret of Anjou. 


In 1 vol. price 4 s - cloth, emblematically gilt. 


npHE ANCIENT CITIES OF THE WORLD, in 

J- their Glory and their Desolation. By the Rev. T. A. Buckley, 
M.A. Illustrated with numerous Engravings. 


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rPHE GREAT CITIES OF THE MIDDLE AGES: 

JL their Rise and Progress. A Companion Volume to the “Ancient- 
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This volume, on the Great Cities of the Middle Ages, will convey to the young 
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is produced in such a Btyle, as to make it a very pleasant “ Hand-Book of His¬ 
tory,” and as such, very appropriate as a Prize or Gift-Book. 








CHEAP EDITIONS OF JUVENILE WORKS. 


3 


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n TJIZOT’S POPULAR TALES. Now first Translated. 

VJ Form an admirable companion to Guizot’s ‘‘Moral Tales.” 
With Eight Illustrations by Godwin. 

“ Are simply and truthfully constructed, and are, as they should be, perfectly 
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so essential in productions of this nature. The translator has preserved this 
tone, and the result is, one of the most complete story books for children in the 
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J OHN RAILTON; or, Read and Think. By W. Robson. 

Illustrated by Godwin. 


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advantage of thinking of what you read is brought out in the most entertaining 
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T he battles of the British army. By 

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interesting style, the most celebrated battles in which the British Army has been 
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L AURA TEMPLE; a Tale for the Young By Anne 
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|"NFLUENCE ; or, the Evil Genius. By the Author of 
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4 


CHEAP EDITIONS OF JUVENELE WORKS. 


THE MOST CORRECT AND BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED NATURAL 

HISTORY EVER PUBLISHED. 

In 1 vol. small post 8vo, price 8s. 6L cloth extra, emblematically 

gilt ; or, with gilt edges, 9 s - 

A STATURAL HISTORY. By Rev. J. G-. Wood. 

-cA Illustrated with 450 Engravings designed expressly for this 
work by William Harvey ; executed in the first style of art by the 
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popular form. 

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2nd. Its Systematic Arrangement. 

3rd. Illustrations executed expressly for the work, with strict 
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4th. New and Authentic Anecdotes. 

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engraved, are a sufficient guarantee. 

It is the Editor’s sincere wish that the perusal of this volume may 
awaken in some minds the love of that science, which, by the constant 
contemplation of God’s works in their wisdom, strength, or beauty, 
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*** Be careful in ordering, to specify “Wood’s Edition,” as ther 
are so many editions of this work. 






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5 


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QTRAY LEAVES FROM SHADY PLACES. By 

O Mrs. Newton Crossland (late Camilla Toulmm), Author of 
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ROUTLEDGE’S ILLUSTRATED STANDARD JUVENILE BOOKS. 

The greatest cave has been taken in producing the present series. They have 
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Author’s meaning, or form of expression. They are printed in a large type, on 
superfine paper, and illustrated in the first style of art, by H. K. Browne, John 
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Bound in Cl th, extra Gilt Back . 3 6 each. 

Ditto Gilt Edges. 4 0 „ 

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QWISS FAMILY BOBINSON; or, Adventures on a 

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One Volume, entirely Revised and Improved. Eight Illustrations 
by John Gilbert. 

VENINGS AT HOME; or, the Juvenile Budget 
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CANDFORD AND MERTON. By Thomas Day. 

hJ A New Edition, entirely Revised and Corrected. Eight Illus¬ 
trations, 416 pages. 

E OBINSON CRUSOE; including His Farther Adven¬ 
tures. Complete Edition, with Life of De Foe- Illustrated 
by Phiz. 432 pages. 









6 CHEAP EDITIONS OF STANDARD JUVENILE WORKS. 


ROUTLEDGE’S ILLUSTRATED JUVENILE BOOKS— continued, 


Price 3s. 6d. each, cloth gilt, 

n UIZOT’S (Madame) MORAL TALES EOT 

AT YOUNG PEOPLE. Translated from the latest French Edition 
by Mrs. L. Burke. Illustrated by Campbell. 

nPHE BOY’S OWN STORY BOOK. With numerou; 

Illustrations by Wm. Harvey. 

HANS ANDERSEN’S FAIRY TALES AND LE 

GENDS. Complete Edition. Illustrated by II. Warren. Ti'ans 


lated by Madame de Chatelain. 


nr RAVELS OF ROLANDO; or, A Tour Round tin 
A World. By Lucy Aiken. Newly Corrected and Revised b; 
Cecil Hartley, A.M. Illustrated by Harvey' 502 pages. 


*THE SEVEN WONDERS of the WORLD, and theii 

-L ASSOCIATIONS. With beautiful Illustrations by Harvey. 

A New Edition considerably enlarged. 


A PICTURE STORY BOOK. Containing Good Ladi 
Bertha’s Honey Broth. Life and Adventures of Punchinello 
Genius Goodfellow, Honest Hubert, and Bean Flower and Pea Bios 
som. Illustrated with Four beautiful coloured Engravings, and Fou: 
Hundred Woodcuts. 



OYAGE AND VENTURE: Narratives of Perils 

by Sea and Land. With Eight Illustrations. 


E OLANDO’S TRAVELS; or, A Tour Round tin 

World. Being a Continuation of the First Series of this popula: 
Work. By Anne Bowman, author of “Laura Temple.” With Ulus 
trations by W. Harvey. 


D AWNINGS OF GENIUS (The) Exemplified ant 

Exhibited in the Early Lives of Distinguished Men. By Rev 
T. A. Buckley, M.A., F.S.A. With Eight Illustrations, fron 
Designs by Godwin. 


pELEBRATED CHILDREN of all Ages and Nations, 
By M. Masson. With Eight Illustrations, from Designs bj 
J. Absolon. 




Contents of the Volume :— 


Royal Children. 
Martyr Children. 
Courageous Children. 
Learned Children. 


1 




Children celebrated for theii 
Filial Affection. 

Laborious Children. 

Poet Children. 


Artist Children. 





















































































